SPIRIT  TRAIL 


avi 


RGIL  D.BOYLE 


THE  SPIRIT  TRAIL 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHORS 

THE  HOMESTEADERS.     Illustrated  in  color 
by  Maynard  Dixon.     Third  Edition. 
Crown  8vo $1.50 

LANGFORD     OF     THE     THREE     BARS: 

A  FIGHTER  or  THE  RIGHT  SORT.     Illustrated 
in  color  by  N.  C.  Wyeth.     Second  Edition. 
Crown  8vo $1.50 

A.  C.  MCCLURG  &  Co.,  Publishers 
CHICAGO 


At  that  moment  a  figure  appeared  in  the  flickering  light 


The  Spirit  Trail 


By  KATE  AND  VIRGIL  D.  BOYLES 


Authors  of  "The  Homesteaders,"  "Langford  of  the 
Three  Bars/'  etc. 


WITH  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 
BY  MAYNARD  DIXON 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  Niw  YORK 


COPYRIGHT 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1910 

Published  October  29,  1910 
Second  Edition,  December  3,  1910 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I     THE  GREAT  Sioux  RESERVATION  .     ,.,     ,.,     .      11 
II     ON  THE  RIVER  .      .      .      ......    ,.,    ,..-     16 

III     ON  THE  ROAD    .     ,.      .      .,    t.,    ,.,    ,.,    (.,    ..;     30 
IV     THE  STORM        .      .      .      .      .,     .     ,.,     ,.,     .     52 

V     THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY  .      .     ,.      .      .     62 
VI     "  THE  LITTLE  Ox  LIES  STRUGGLING  ON  THE 

EARTH"      ......    ... 74 

VII     THE  SUN  DANCE    .      .     ,.,    ,.,    w    ,.,    w     .     93 

VIII     WHY     NOT? 117 

IX     THE  MAN   OF  MANY  MEMORIES  SPEAKS  TO 

THE   BRULES     .      .      .     ...     ..     ...     .      .129 

X     THE  DORSEY  GANG      .      .     ,.,     .      .,    ,.      .   147 
XI     THE   SPECIAL   INSPECTOR   ASKS   FOR   A   RE- 
COUNT     162 

XII     THE  WOOING  OF  THE  WHITE  FLOWER   w     .   183 
XIII     THE  STRANGER  WHO  CAME  AND  WENT  SI- 
LENTLY     199 

XIV     THE  POT  OF  GOLD  AT  THE  RAINBOW'S  END  210 

XV     THE  BRIDGE  BUILDER  .      .      .,     ...    ,.,    ,.,     .   228 

XVI     A  MAN  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY     m    OT    ,.,     .  244 

XVII     You  HAD  A  PRETTY  DREAM    «    ,.,    ,.,    t.      .  261 

XVIII     LOCKE  OUTWITS  THE  JAILER  m     M    m    m    »  274 

XIX     THE    PERFECT    FRIEND     «,    *    M    m    M    »•  891 

M18923 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX  THE  GATES  THROWN  OPEN    .      .      .,     .      .  311 

XXI  IN  THE  CAMP  OF  THE  DAKOTAS    .      .      .      .   329 

XXII  WHITE  FLOWER  MAKES  A  PROMISE     .     ...     .   344 

XXIII  KATHARINE  AND  LOCKE 355 

XXIV  RUNNING  BIRD  COMES  INTO  His  OWN  AT  LAST  371 
XXV  I  THINK  — I  CAN  NEVER  Go  HOME  AGAIN  396 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

At  that  moment  a  figure  appeared  in  the  flickering 

light Frontispiece 

"  My  people/'  he  began,  "  stay  your  hands.     Put  away 

your  weapons  " 1 44 

"  Oh,  Running  Bird/'  cried  Katharine,  "  do  my  father 

and  mother  know  where  I  am?" 338 

Running  Bird  was  steadily  gaining  on  his  enemy  • 


THE   SPIRIT  TRAIL 


ARTICLE  2.  The  United  States  agrees  that  the  following 
district  of  country,  to-wit,  viz:  commencing  on  the  east  bank  of 
the  Missouri  River  where  the  forty-sixth  parallel  of  north  latitude 
crosses  the  same;  thence  along  low  water  mark  down  said  east 
bank  to  a  point  opposite  where  the  northern  line  of  the  State  of 
Nebraska  strikes  the  river;  thence  west  across  said  river  and  along 
the  northern  line  of  Nebraska  to  the  one  hundred  and  fourth  de- 
gree of  longitude  west  from  Greenwich;  thence  north  on  said 
meridian  to  a  point  where  the  forty-sixth  parallel  of  north  lati- 
tude intercepts  the  same;  thence  due  east  along  said  parallel  to 
the  place  of  beginning;  and,  in  addition  thereto,  all  existing  reser- 
vations on  the  east  bank  of  said  river  shall  be,  and  the  same  is, 
hereby  set  apart  for  the  absolute  and  undisturbed  use  and  occu- 
pation of  the  Indians  herein  named,  and  for  such  other  friendly 
tribes  or  individual  Indians  as  from  time  to  time  they  may  be 
willing,  with  the  consent  of  the  United  States,  to  admit  amongst 
them;  and  the  United  States  now  solemnly  agrees  that  no  per- 
sons except  those  herein  designated  and  authorized  so  to  do,  and 
except  such  officers,  agents,  and  employees  of  the  Government  as 
may  be  authorized  to  enter  upon  Indian  reservations  in  discharge 
of  duties  enjoined  by  law,  shall  ever  be  permitted  to  pass  over, 
settle  upon,  or  reside  in  the  territory  described  in  this  article, 
or  in  such  territory  as  may  be  added  to  this  reservation  for  the 
use  of  said  Indians,  and  henceforth  they  will,  and  do  hereby, 
relinquish  all  claims  or  right  in  and  to  any  portion  of  the  United 
States  or  Territories,  except  such  as  is  embraced  within  the  limits 
aforesaid.  .  .  . 

ARTICLE  12.  No  treaty  for  the  cession  of  any  portion  or 
part  of  the  reservation  herein  described  which  may  be  held  in 
common  shall  be  of  any  validity  or  force  as  against  the  said 
Indians  unless  executed  and  signed  by  at  least  three-fourths  of 
all  the  adult  male  Indians  occupying  and  interested  in  the 
same.  .  .  .  TREATY  OF  LARAMIE,  1868. 


THE     SPIRIT     TRAIL 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    GREAT    SIOUX    RESERVATION 

RED  CLOUD,  Chief  of  the  Oglala  Sioux,  at  his 
buffalo  camp  on  Powder  River,  received  the  mes- 
sengers from  the  Peace  Commission  courteously  but 
did  not  hasten  down  to  Fort  Laramie  in  response  to  the 
urgent  request.  Instead,  he  sent  word  that  he  thought 
he  should  wait  until  the  forts  were  abandoned  and  the 
road  closed  up  before  he  signed  the  treaty. 

The  road  in  question  was  that  highway  which  the 
Government  had  proposed  to  construct  from  the  Cal- 
ifornia trail  near  Fort  Laramie,  across  by  way  of  the 
Powder  River  Valley  to  the  gold  fields  in  Montana  and 
Idaho ;  and  the  forts  were  those  builded  along  its  course 
to  protect  the  work  of  construction  from  the  attacks  of 
Red  Cloud  and  his  Oglalas,  who  resented  bitterly  this 
invasion  of  the  richest,  in  fact  the  only,  buffalo  range 
left  to  the  Sioux  Nation.  The  Government  did  not  as 
yet  altogether  trust  Red  Cloud.  It  was  late  August 
before  it  finally  determined  to  take  the  chief  at  his  word 
and  to  withdraw  all  the  troops  from  the  forts.  This 
resolve  was  put  into  execution,  but  still  the  great  chief 
did  not  come  down  to  meet  the  peace  commissioners. 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  It  is  so  late  now,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  will  put 
up  my  Winter's  meat  before  I  go  down  to  sign." 

So,  all  during  that  Fall,  while  both  the  Indian  de- 
partment and  the  Military  waited  in  nerve-trying 
suspense  and  uneasiness,  Red  Cloud,  taking  his  own 
good  time,  busied  himself  in  drying  buffalo  meat,  and 
curing  hides  for  the  fast  vanishing  fur  trade. 

"  Will  Red  Cloud  keep  faith?  "  men  asked  themselves 
and  each  other  many  times  during  those  long  days  of 
waiting. 

"  Faith?  Faith  in  a  redskin?  "  said  a  member  of  the 
Commission,  an  army  officer  who  stood  high  in  the  Gov- 
ernment's confidence,  and  who  was  distinguished  in  his 
day  as  a  peerless  Indian-fighter,  though  somewhat  over- 
zealous  perhaps.  "  Policy,  if  anything,  or  fear  of  the 
Great  Father's  vengeance,  may  bring  him  down  to  treat 
with  us,  but  never  good  faith.  I  should  not  be  at  all 
surprised  if  he  were  plotting  mischief  right  now." 

"  It  is  insolent,  to  say  the  least,"  grumbled  a  second 
member  of  the  Commission,  "  to  keep  us  waiting  his 
pleasure  with  figurative  fingers  in  our  mouths,  while  he 
—  goes  hunting.  It  must  be  royal  sport  to  keep  the 
great  Republic  of  the  United  States  thus  dangling  — 
a  right  kingly  conception  of  humor,  and  no  mistake. 
For  my  part,  I  would  with  all  my  heart  that  I  were 
stalking  buffalo  while  my  red  friend  danced  to  the 
never-ending  time  of  my  errant  fancy.  I  should  make 
him  rue  the  day  very  bitterly  that  he  taught  me  the 
game  so  well." 

"Do  not  be  afraid.  Red  Cloud  will  keep  faith,'* 
[12] 


THE  GREAT  SIOUX  RESERVATION 

said  a  new  voice  in  the  fort,  calm  yet  full  with  the 
authority  of  confidence. 

"  How  so?  Do  you  come  from  the  Powder?  I 
thought  you  rode  from  the  opposite  direction." 

"  So  I  did,'*  said  the  stranger,  quietly.  "  I  am  not 
an  emissary  from  Red  Cloud.  On  the  contrary,  I  have 
never  seen  this  chief  in  my  life.  I  have  come  directly 
from  the  Missouri  River." 

"  On  what,  then,  do  you  ground  your  so  great  faith  ?  " 
asked  someone,  curiously. 

"  Because  his  is  a  righteous  war,"  said  the  stranger, 
clearly,  and  he  turned  the  steadfast  lustre  of  his  tired 
but  brave  gray  eyes  full  upon  his  interlocutor. 

"  It  is  evident  that  you  believe  strongly  in  the  Church 
Militant,"  said  the  grizzled  old  Indian-fighter,  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  a  glance  at  the  plain  gold 
cross  gleaming  in  relief  against  the  dark  of  the  young 
man's  waistcoat. 

And  the  saddle-weary  newcomer,  remembering  Ash 
Hollow  and  its  stain,  answered  with  a  great  sadness : 

"  Is  it  only  thus  that  peace  can  come  to  this  people 
—  the  peace  of  fear?  Yes,  I  believe  in  fighting,"  he 
continued,  the  scintillation  of  a  smile  lighting  up  his 
rather  grave  features.  "  I  am  somewhat  of  a  fighter 
myself.  I  fight  a  host  of  foes  —  the  sun,  moon,  wind, 
thunder,  lightning,  the  Aurora  Borealis,  Onkteri, 
Wakinyan,  Takuxhanxkan,  with  all  their  satellites  of 
serpents,  lizards,  frogs,  owls,  eagles,  spirits  of  the  dead, 
buzzards,  ravens,  foxes,  wolves,  and  myriads  of  others, 
all  under  the  evil  tutelage  of  wakan-men.  But  more 

[13] 


THE      SPIRIT      TRAIL; 

than  all,"  and  there  was  a  ring  in  his  voice  that  few  who 
heard  him  ever  forgot,  "  I  believe  that  the  heart  of  man 
is  instinctively  honest,  and  that  it  is  treachery  that 
begets  treachery.  Red  Cloud  is  a  man.  Soon  you 
shall  know." 

"  And  Red  Cloud  was  not  at  Ash  Hollow,"  said  an- 
other voice  in  good  English,  and  yet  no  white  man  had 
spoken.  If  it  was  the  young  priest's  dusky  companion 
who  had  thus  given  speech,  he  did  not  again  trans- 
gress. His  mouth  was  set  in  lines  of  strong-willed 
taciturnity.  His  sombre  eyes  above  his  high  cheek- 
bones gazed  haughtily  past  the  interested  glances  focused 
upon  his  dark  face. 

"  Were  you  at  Ash  Hollow  ?  "  asked  a  bystander, 
pointedly. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  another. 

Still  no  answer. 

"  On  my  word,  but  you  are  a  surly  fellow,"  said  the 
Indian-fighter,  turning  to  saunter  away. 

The  priest  put  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  In- 
dian's shoulder.  A  sudden  quiet  fell  upon  the  by- 
standers. Without  warning,  the  air  seemed  all  at  once 
charged  with  a  strange  expectancy. 

"  Just  a  minute,  General,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to 
present  my  friend,  Running  Bird.  His  father  was  Lit- 
tle Thunder,  Chief  of  the  Brule  Sioux,  who  fought  and 
died  at  —  Ash  Hollow." 

It  was  a  warm,  bright,  still  day  in  October  when  the 
priest  and  his  Indian  friend,  Running  Bird,  after  many 

[14] 


THE  GREAT   SIOUX  RESERVATION 

dusty  days  in  the  saddle,  rode  through  the  stockade 
gates  of  Fort  Laramie.  No  one  knew  their  errand,  or 
cared,  perhaps.  The  cross  was  following  the  sword  into 
the  Indian  country  —  that  was  all.  The  Army  was 
always  in  the  van  —  the  Church  lagging  behind.  The 
Army  was  the  real  missionary  after  all.  So  those  first 
soldiers  preserved  a  patronizing,  though  kindly,  toler- 
ance toward  the  first  missionaries;  and  at  Washington, 
the  Great  Father  tried  to  guide  wisely  the  destinies  of 
the  one,  while  he  looked  forward  hopefully  to  the  ulti- 
mate triumph  of  both.  The  two  men  abode  in  the  fort 
until  the  blue  of  October  turned  into  the  brown  of 
November,  and  the  wolves  grew  very  bold  indeed  because 
their  tawny  skins  were  now  the  color  of  everything; 
until  the  thrifty  hunter  had  his  lodge  stored  full  of  meat 
for  the  Winter,  though  the  reckless  were  still  far  afield ; 
and  on  the  ninth,  Red  Cloud,  Chief  of  the  Oglala  Sioux, 
came  down  from  his  camp  on  the  Powder  and  signed  the 
treaty  of  peace. 


[15] 


CHAPTER  II 

ON    THE    RIVER 

IT  was  July,  and  the  melted  snows  from  the  moun- 
tains had  swelled  the  great  river  until  it  slopped 
over  its  banks  in  the  low  places,  backed  itself  up  every 
ravine  and  gulch  that  drew  to  the  high  water  level, 
and,  when  compressed  within  the  narrow  limits  of  high 
chalk-rock  bluffs  on  either  side,  sprang  forward  and 
took  the  breach,  rushing,  roaring,  swirling,  leaping,  in 
its  race  to  get  through  and  once  more  stretch  itself,  and 
the  boom  of  whose  frantic  haste  might  be  heard  for  a 
mile  or  more  sounding  upon  the  surface  of  the  water 
or  far  inland  through  the  light  atmosphere.  The  heat 
of  the  noonday  had  spread  filmy  clouds  between  the 
earth  and  the  sun  with  hints  of  rain  in  them,  but  so  far 
they  had  brought  only  a  fresher  Summer  breeze  and 
sent  it  singing  down  the  valley,  where  often,  its  right 
of  way  being  disputed  by  some  rocky  promontory,  it 
whipped  the  water  for  the  insolence  until  the  waves  flew 
their  white  caps  of  unwilling  submission,  before  it* 
slipped  whisperingly  around  the  bend.  Willow  thick- 
ets, growing  upon  low  bottom  lands  or  upon  islands 
where  perhaps  not  long  since  a  grain  of  sand  had  lodged 
on  a  submerged  snag,  and  then  another  and  another,  until 
an  island  was  formed,  showed  now  but  their  wind- 

[16] 


OX        THE        RIVER 

blown  green  tops  like  reeds  in  a  marsh.  On  this  side,, 
now  on  that,  as  the  changing  river  shifted  its  course, 
arose  to  sheer  but  varying  heights  the  cut  bluffs,  some 
with  white,  staring,  sphinx-like  faces,  others  frowning 
darkly,  but  always  fit  monuments  of  a  majestic  solitude 
and  of  a  history  whose  covers  will  never  be  opened,, 
whose  pictography  never  read.  Up  and  down  the  river 
brooded  the  shadow  of  its  centuries  of  silence  and  the 
mysterious  charm  of  its  remoteness,  changed  but  in- 
jfinitesimally  since  those  never-to-be-forgotten  days  when 
Lewis  and  Clarke  journeyed  that  way,  giant  pioneers 
who  struck  the  first  blow  that  sunk  our  frontier  into  the 
Western  Ocean. 

The  sight  and  sound  of  a  steamboat  making  its  regal 
way  through  the  tremendous  current  on  that  Summer 
day  in  the  early  seventies,  surrounded  as  it  was  by  these 
silent  witnesses  of  an  unwritten  past,  seemed  to  many 
of  the  passengers  like  an  anachronism.  The  vessel 
was  the  Far  West  of  the  Coulson  Packet  Company, 
loaded  at  Yankton  with  Government  supplies,  and  bound 
for  the  up-river  forts  and  agencies.  It  was  a  strongly 
built  stern-wheeler,  its  builders  at  Pittsburg  bearing  in 
mind  always  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  Missouri  River, 
for  traffic  on  whose  waters  it  was  especially  designed; 
so  that  the  push  of  the  channel  had  but  little  effect  in 
delaying  the  boat's  usual  rate  of  progress. 

On  the  cool  side  of  the  upper  deck  sat  the  wife  and 
daughter  of  the  newly  appointed  agent  of  Big  Bend 
Agency.     At  least  the  wife  was  sitting.     The  daughter 
walked  the  deck  in  her  quick  impatience. 
8  [17] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

"  Are  you  tired  already,  Katharine  ? "  asked  the 
mother,  a  pale,  slight,  fair  little  woman,  who  was  quite 
content  to  sit  quietly  in  her  chair  while  her  tall  daughter 
paced  restlessly  to  and  fro. 

66  Already,  mother  ?  When  was  I  ever  not  tired  of 
this  —  madcap  and  heartless  demand  of  my  father's  ?  " 

"  I  mean  tired  of  this  boat ;  and  please  don't  call  it 
heartless,  dear.  Your  father  only  asked,  and  we  —  we 
came  because  it  was  our  duty  to  come.  It  ought  to  be 
our  pleasure.  I  am  trying  to  make  it  mine.  He  is  so 
very  lonely." 

"  You  mean  that  you  came  because  he  wanted  you  to, 
and  I  came  because  —  well,  perhaps  I  was  ashamed  to 
let  my  little  mother  show  a  braver  spirit  than  mine ;  and 
perhaps  I  was  too  cowardly  to  be  left  alone;  and  still 
another  perhaps,"  she  said,  crumpling  her  tall  self  once 
more  into  her  chair  and  laughing  affectionately,  "  I 
came  to  protect  your  beautiful  soft  hair,  mother.  I 
thought  maybe  when  they  went  to  take  it, —  those  dread- 
ful tomahawk  men,— if  I  offered  mine  instead,  they 
might  accept  the  sacrifice  because,  you  see,  mine  is  yel- 
lower than  yours  though  not  half  so  pretty;  but  my 
hope  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  savage  mind,  devoid  of 
taste  or  judgment  in  art,  would  immediately  grasp  after 
the  glitter  and  leave  the  gold." 

"  What  nonsense !  "  said  Mrs.  Mendenhall,  with  a  little 
laugh  in  which  there  was  a  minor  note  of  tears  and 
dread.  "  But  I  cannot  help  thinking,  Katharine,  that 
you  had  far  better  have  remained  at  home,  at  least  for 
the  present.  It  will  be  very  lonely  for  you." 

[18] 


ON        THE        RIVER 

"  Home,  mother?  "  said  Katharine,  and  there  was  a 
peculiar,  intent,  almost  tragic  look  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 
tragic  because  of  its  hint  of  prophecy.  "  We  are 
going  home.  We  have  left  behind  us  everything  that 
was  sweet  and  pleasant  and  worth  while,  and  we  are 
going  to  a  wilderness  of  loneliness  and  to  dreary  wastes 
of  never  ending  crudeness  and  barbarism  —  but  we  are 
going  home.  We  must  never  forget  that." 

"  Not  you,  dear,"  said  the  older  woman,  quietly,  tears 
springing  to  the  faded  blue  eyes.  "  You  will  go  back 
some  day  —  very  soon,  perhaps ;  and  I  am  an  old 
woman,  so  what  does  it  matter  where  I  am  so  I  be  with 
my  husband?  " 

"  If  I  thought,"  said  Katharine,  with  a  quick  change 
of  mood,  "  really  and  truly  thought  that  I  should  have 
to  live  the  rest  of  my  days  among  the  Indians,  I  should 
jump  from  this  deck  down  there  into  that  yellow  whirl- 
pool right  this  minute.  You  need  n't  smile,  mother.  I 
mean  it  —  almost.  For  it  would  come  to  that  in  the 
end.  So  why  wait  for  the  slow  torture  of  approaching 
insanity?  When  my  mind  should  be  altogether  lost,  I 
should  simply  walk  off  one  of  those  ghostly  cliffs  some 
dark  night,  and  that  would  be  the  end.  If  I  ever  should 
lose  my  mind,  those  lonesome  cliffs  would  haunt  me 
to  my  undoing, —  that  I  know, —  so  I  should  take  the 
leap  at  once  and  spare  myself  the  misery  between.  Now 
forgive  me,  little  mother,  for  my  brutal  selfishness.  I 
had  to  thrash  it  all  out  to  you,  hadn't  I?  It  was  the 
only  way  to  regain  my  shreds  and  tatters  of  self- 
respect.  I  am  happier  now.  I  have  talked  out  the 

[19] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

demon  of  my  unrest.     I  could  bear  even  hours  on  a 
sand  bar.     I  walk  the  deck  no  more." 

She  picked  up  a  book  that  had  fallen  to  the  floor  and 
opened  it  resolutely.  Hers  was  a  striking  figure,  sit- 
ting there  in  the  shade  of  the  eastern  row  of  staterooms, 
.a  flower  plucked  from  the  very  heart  of  civilization, 
being  borne  to  the  very  heart  of  the  Great  Reservation, 
and  so  evidently  against  her  choice  if  not  against  her 
will.  The  set  face  forced  to  its  task  of  reading,  and 
the  drooping  poise  of  the  tall,  beautifully  rounded 
young  body,  both  spoke  eloquently  of  a  life  loved  and 
shielded,  humored  and  self-effaced  for,  until  the  queenly 
progress  of  it  had  altogether,  without  warning,  come 
upon  one  of  those  quiet  forces  of  nature  that  for  all 
their  quietness  and  all  their  unassumingness  yet  rule 
the  world.  The  man  had  said,  "  Come,"  and  the 
woman  was  coming.  The  man  was  Katharine  Menden- 
hall's  father,  and  the  woman,  the  slight,  pale  little  lady 
at  her  side.  That  was  why  she  sat  chafing  on  the  upper 
deck  of  the  Far  West,  bound  for  the  upper  river.  The 
meeker  woman,  hearkening  to  the  call  of  the  man,  had 
conquered.  Katharine  was  twenty-four  and  her  hair 
was  as  yellow  with  gold  as  were  the  shining  depths  of 
that  treasure  locked  and  guarded  within  the  storehouses 
of  those  darkly  showing,  splendid  Indian  hills,  covered 
over  with  their  wonderful  forests  of  pines  —  so  soon 
to  set  the  passion  of  gain  of  a  great  country  aflame, 
so  that  men  would  forget  their  honor,  and  chief  magis- 
trates their  sacred  trust,  because  of  the  lure  there 
is  in  the  shining  gold.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  a  deep, 

[20]  ' 


ON        THE        RIVER 

dark  blue,  with  a  straightforward  self-confident  out- 
look. From  the  moment  of  coming  aboard  at  Yank- 
ton  she  had  so  wrapped  herself  in  the  outer  gar- 
ments of  reserve  that  no  one  had  dared  to  speak  to  her 
as  yet.  Mrs.  Mendenhall,  on  the  contrary,  at  luncheon 
in  the  dining  saloon,  had  made  tentative  advances  toward 
fellowship  with  one  or  two  persons  who  seemed,  like 
her,  to  be  coming  into  a  far  country. 

"  What  noise  is  that?  "  asked  Katharine,  suddenly, 
laying  down  her  book.  "  Is  it  thunder?  " 

"  It  is  too  continuous  for  thunder,"  replied  the  older 
woman,  anxiously.  "  I  have  been  hearing  it  for  some 
time.  Ask  the  Captain,  Katharine,  won't  you?  It 
gets  on  one's  nerves." 

"  You  must  learn  to  do  without  such  inconvenient 
things  as  nerves  in  this  haunt  of  the  savage,  mother 
mine,"  said  Katharine,  laughingly,  but  she  rose  to  obey 
the  request.  She  had  laid  aside  her  silk  travelling  coat 
because  of  the  cloudy  heat  of  the  afternoon,  and  she 
looked  very  neat  and  trim  in  her  faultlessly  made  frock, 
as  she  made  her  way  to  the  pilot-house  with  a  calm 
assurance  of  her  perfect  right  to  do  anything  or  to 
go  anywhere  she  pleased  in  the  world. 

"  That  rumbling,  Miss  ?  That 's  rapids,"  responded 
the  Captain,  courteously.  The  pilot  did  not  turn  at 
the  question.  His  bronzed  face  was  intent;  his  .eyes, 
trained  to  steadfastness  by  much  looking  forward,  were 
fixed  on  the  narrowing  waters  ahead. 

"How  can  there  be  rapids  in  the  Missouri?"  de- 
manded Katharine,  unconvinced. 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  I  think  the  old  river  is  cutting  a  new  channel  up 
there  a  ways  —  she 's  a  horribly  fickle  creature.  I 
reckon  all  that  spread  out  water  at  the  bend  thrown 
over  here  and  forcing  itself  through  these  narrow  limits 
is  causing  the  trouble." 

"  Is  there  any  danger? "  asked  Katharine,  with  a 
little  chill  of  apprehension. 

"Not  the  least.  The  Far  West  will  take  that 
like  a  swallow  on  the  wing.  Nothing  in  this  heathen 
river  surprises  her  any  more.  Besides,  she's  built 
for  it." 

The  roar  of  the  rapids  was  unmistakable  now  to  all, 
and  in  another  moment  the  stanch  steamer  was  almost 
staggering  beneath  the  force  of  opposition  it  met  to 
its  further  progress.  The  waves  raced  and  roared  and 
whirled.  The  thunder  of  their  wild  haste  was  deafening. 
But  the  boat  rallied  gallantly  to  the  renewed  pressure  of 
steam  and  pursued  her  stately  way.  Katharine  re- 
turned to  her  mother. 

"  We  are  losing  time,"  she  fretted,  discontentedl}7. 

"  Are  you  in  such  great  haste  to  meet  your  savage 
friends?"  asked  her  mother,  quietly. 

"  It 's  like  —  jumping  into  the  river,"  said  Katharine, 
whimsically.  "  I  want  to  have  it  over  with." 

"  Why,  child,  how  still  it  is !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Men- 
denhall,  strangely  startled.  "  Is  it  because  we  are 
through  the  rapids  ?  " 

"  Do  you  hear  the  engine  ?  "  asked  Katharine,  almost 
in  a  whisper.  "  Listen." 

An  eerie  silence  at  first  greeted  their  strained  atten- 
[22] 


ON        THE        RIVER 

tion,  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  old  familiar  boom 
of  the  tumbling  current  came  to  them  with  a  new  dis- 
tinctness. That  was  all.  It  seemed  louder  than  be- 
fore because  of  the  cessation  of  other  sound.  It  was  the 
sudden  stopping  of  the  noise  of  the  throbbing  engine 
that  had  so  modified  the  beat  upon  the  ears  that  for  the 
moment  it  seemed  as  if  even  the  seething  waters  were 
quiet. 

"  We  are  standing  still,"  cried  Mrs.  Mendenhall,  in 
terror. 

"  Standing  still?  "  said  Katharine,  with  a  forced  com- 
posure. "  Mother,  we  are  floating  down  stream." 

They  did  not  drift  long.  Just  below  the  rapids,  the 
vessel  staggered,  strained  a  little,  quivered  through  all 
her  heavy  timbers,  and  stood  still.  Instantly  there 
was  the  wildest  confusion  throughout  the  steamer  — 
but  to  the  passengers'  deck  came  the  Captain,  at  once 
quelling  the  threatened  panic  with  his  clear,  calm  ex- 
planations. 

"  The  engine  broke  down  and  we  thought  to  let  the 
boat  drift  below  the  rapids  before  we  deemed  it  wise 
to  anchor.  There  is  not  the  least  danger.  No,  we 
have  not  run  on  a  snag  —  only  a  sand-bar.  Nothing 
is  wrong  with  the  boat  except  the  engine.  No,  we  have 
not  sprung  a  leak.  It  will  be  necessary  to  get  a  steam 
boat  to  tow  us  back  to  Yankton,  and  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  tie  up  two  or  three  days  for  repairs.  As  it  will  be 
impossible  to  get  a  boat  here  until  some  time  to-mor- 
row, it  would  seem  that  we  are  doomed  to  spend  the 
night  on  this  sand-bar.  It  is  extremely  provoking." 

[23] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

He  paused  to  mop  his  heated  face  with  his  handker- 
chief. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Mendenhall. 
"  Do  you  think  there  will  be  any  other  boat  going  up 
the  river  right  away  ?  " 

"I  think  not,"  the  Captain  replied.  "The 
Josephme  expects  to  leave  Yankton  in  about  a  week, 
but  by  that  time  we  will  be  two  or  three  days  on  our 
journey.  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  alternative  but  for 
you  to  wait  until  we  get  our  engine  repaired  and  are 
ready  to  make  a  new  start."  The  Captain  turned  and 
walked  away.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  two 
ladies  saw  him  returning,  followed  by  two  gentlemen. 

"  Let  me  present  Mr.  Hugh  Hunt,"  he  said,  "  In- 
dian missionary,  and  Mr.  Locke  Raynor.  Mr.  Raynor 
has  been  appointed  issue  clerk  at  the  Agency,  I  believe." 

"  Captain  Maxwell  informs  me,"  said  the  man  called 
Locke  Raynor,  in  a  voice  that  was  slow  and  pleasing, 
"  that  you  were  anxious  to  reach  the  Agency  with  as 
little  delay  as  possible.  I  am  also  very  anxious  to  pro- 
ceed. I  take  it  that  Mr.  Hunt,  too,  does  not  greatly 
relish  a  stop-over.  The  Captain  informs  me  that  there 
are  horses  on  board,  and  saddles,  to  be  consigned  to 
Major  Mendenhall  at  the  Agency,  and  he  has  suggested 
that  we  might  take  these  animals  and  continue  the  trip 
overland.  He  also  suggested  that  you  might  possibly 
like  to  accompany  us.  There  are  blankets  and  plenty 
of  provisions.  If  you  think  you  can  put  up  with  the 
hardships  of  such  a  journey,  it  will  enable  you  to  reach 


ON        THE        RIVER 

the  Agency  three  or  four  days  sooner  than  you  will  if 
you  wait  for  the  boat." 

"  If  only  Mr.  Mendenhall  had  met  us !  "  mourned  the 
Major's  lady. 

"  He  was  unavoidedly  detained?  "  asked  Locke  Ray- 
nor,  politely. 

"Yes.  We  found  a  telegram  waiting  for  us  at 
Yankton  saying  that  the  Indians  were  restless  and  that 
he  dared  not  leave  the  Agency  at  present." 

"  I  don't  see  why  they  had  to  go  and  get  all  worked 
tip  the  very  day  my  father  was  to  meet  us,"  fretted 
Katharine.  "  Why  did  n't  they  have  their  ridiculous 
old  dances  before  we  left  home?  Or  if  they  were  too 
contrary  to  do  that,  then  they  might  at  least  have 
waited  until  we  were  safe  in  their  wretched  country. 
What  is  it  all  about,  anyway?  " 

"  Perhaps  their  medicine  men  need  a  little  time  for 
reflection  behind  steel  bars,  Miss  Mendenhall.  They 
have  held  communion  with  evil  spirits  so  long  that  we 
need  not  fear  that  they  will  be  too  lonely  in  captivity. 
And  I  think  their  braves  need  the  feel  of  good  powder 
and  lead.  Some  day,  perhaps,  we  shall  be  sorry  for 
our  leniency." 

The  priest  had  not  yet  spoken.  He  stood  waiting, 
slight,  pale-faced,  quiet,  with  big  gray  eyes  that  were 
dark  and  burning  with  the  lustre  of  the  everlasting 
fires  of  his  great  soul  —  fires  that  burned  so  steadily 
that  it  seemed  as  if  they  must  some  time  consume  the 
spare  frame. 

[35] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Then  why  don't  they  order  out  the  soldiers  ?  "  de- 
manded Katharine,  impatiently. 

"  They  have  ordered  them  out  often  —  very  often. 
I  do  not  think  that  this  is  the  time  for  the  soldiers, 
Miss  Mendenhall,"  said  the  priest,  quietly.  His  voice 
was  low  and  musical  with  the  cultured  cadences  in  it 
that  spoke  of  cities  and  home  and  the  land  of  the  rising 
sun.  A  tiny  sob  of  homesickness  came  suddenly  into 
Katharine's  throat,  but  she  smothered  it  quickly. 

"  You  think  there  is  no  danger,  then?  "  she  asked. 

"  Of  an  outbreak?     I  hope  not.     I  trust  not." 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  what  the  trouble  is  ?  " 

"  It  is  only  that  General  Custer  has  been  sent  to  the 
Black  Hills." 

"  And  high  time,  too,"  said  Captain  Maxwell,  de- 
cidedly. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  priest,  with  a  strange  smile. 
"  But  if  he  would  go  back  to  Fort  Abraham  Lincoln, 
Major  Mendenhall  might  meet  his  wife  and  daughter." 

"  Does  your  mother  ride,  Miss  Mendenhall  ?  "  asked 
Locke  Raynor,  observing  an  impatience  on  the  part  of 
the  Captain  to  have  the  matter  disposed  of  one  way  or 
another. 

"  Not  of  late.  She  used  to  be  accounted  a  fine 
horsewoman.'* 

"And  you?'* 

"  I  can  do  —  what  I  have  to  do,"  said  Katharine, 
briefly. 

"  Then  let  me  urge  you  to  take  to  the  horses,"  said 
Locke  Raynor.  "  If  there  should  be  a  general  up- 

[26] 


ON        THE        RIVER 

rising  —  though  that  is  surely  a  remote  contingency  — • 
you  might  be  indefinitely  delayed;  but  once  at  the 
Agency,  you  will  be  safe,  no  matter  what  happens." 

"It  will  be  a  very  harsh  journey,"  cautioned  Hugh 
Hunt,  gravely,  "  for  gentlewomen.  We  have  no  tent, 
and  the  stage  route  is  not  an  extraordinarily  good  one. 
The  stage  houses  are  very  primitive.  They  are  un- 
accustomed to  rough-riding.  It  is  very  probable  that 
we  shall  have  rain." 

Katharine  turned  to  him  quickly. 

"  Then  you  think  there  is  danger  if  we  choose  the 
land  journey?  " 

"  From  what  source?  " 

"  The  Indians." 

"  The  Indians  ?  My  Indians  ?  No,  I  do  not  think 
there  is  any  danger  from  that  source." 

"  Please  then,  Captain  Maxwell,  put  us  ashore,"  said 
Katharine,  decidedly.  "  I  said  I  could  stand  hours  on 
a  sand  bar,  but  I  cannot.  I  should  die.  Anything  is 
better  than  stagnation.  I  think  we  can  make  almost  as 
good  time  riding  as  the  steamer  does,  anyway,  going  up 
stream,  and  that  will  save  my  father  a  great  deal  of 
unnecessary  suspense." 

"  As  I  explained  to  Mr.  Raynor,"  said  the  Captain, 
"  there  are  only  two  horses  aboard  for  Major  Menden- 
hall.  They  were  doubtless  intended  especially  for  you 
ladies.  But  it  is  only  a  short  distance  to  Springfield, 
where  you  can  either  secure  more  horses  or  wait  for  the 
stage.  There  will  probably  be  others  going  as  far  as 
Springfield.  So  be  it,  then." 

[27] 


[THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

The  men  made  short  work  of  transferring  their 
meagre  effects  to  the  skiff.  Obliged  as  they  would  be 
to  walk  some  little  distance  before  finding  horses  for 
themselves,  they  saw  the  mistake  of  attempting  to  carry 
more  than  the  strictest  necessity  demanded. 

Safely  ensconced  in  the  stern  with  her  mother,  Katha- 
rine yet  could  not  keep  back  a  gasp  of  sheer  dread  as 
the  small  boat  pulled  away  from  the  stranded  steamer. 
The  gloomy  waste  of  choppy,  racing  waves  between  her 
and  the  distant  shore  were  brought  so  close  to  her  that 
in  reaching  to  slap  the  sides  of  the  frail  craft,  the 
water  often  splashed  over,  and  once  wet  her  arm  to  the 
elbow  as  she  clung  desperately  to  the  side  of  the  skiff. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  Locke  Raynor,  with  kindly 
assurance,  as  he  plied  one  pair  of  oars  with  long,  steady 
sweeps  of  unmistakable  accustomedness.  One  of  the 
steamer's  crew  bent  to  a  second  stand,  so  the  little  craft 
cut  the  current,  pointing  upstream,  with  a  fair  degree 
of  directness. 

But  Katharine's  involuntary  gasp  turned  into  a  real 
cry  of  alarm  as  a  sudden  tremendous  splash,  followed 
almost  instantaneously  by  another  as  great,  sounded 
behind  her. 

"  It  is  only  your  horses,"  said  Locke,  with  a  quiet 
emile.  "  They  were  pushed  overboard  so  they  would 
swim  in  the  wake  of  our  boat.  Good  boys !  They  have 
made  a  gallant  recovery  and  are  coming  after  us  in 
fine  shape  —  heads  up  —  no  slopping  or  kicking. 
There  's  grit  for  you." 

It  seemed  as  if  this  man  must  be  always  reassuring 
[28] 


ON        THE        RIVER 

her,  Katharine  Mendenhall,  who  had  never  before  been 
afraid  of  anything  in  all  her  proud  young  life.  This 
man  was  a  stranger.  It  was  altogether  within  the 
bounds  of  possibility  that  he  was  one  of  those  unfor- 
tunate beings  who,  having  made  serious  mistakes  in  the 
places  that  knew  them,  wished  to  lose  themselves  in  the 
wide  and  rough  and  unasking  frontier.  She  had  known 
of  men  dropping  quietly  out  of  their  wonted  niches,  and 
people  had  said  of  such,  vaguely :  "  They  have  gone 
West."  Why  was  this  unknown  man  observing  her  so 
closely  as  to  be  conscious  of  her  least  movement?  She 
resented  it,  even  while  a  quick  faith  in  his  power  to- 
guide  them  safely  through  the  gloomy  mazes  of  tossing 
water  sprang  into  life  and  grew  steadily. 

"  I  thought  maybe  it  was  a  —  sea  serpent,"  she  said, 
trying  to  smile  with  a  brave  unconcern. 

When  the  stragglers  from  the  Far  West  arrived  at 
Springfield,  there  were  still  some  hours  of  daylight  left. 
After  consultation,  the  Agency  party,  consisting  of 
Mrs.  Mendenhall  and  Katharine,  the  Missionary  and 
Locke  Raynor,  decided  to  push  on  as  long  as  they  could 
distinguish  the  trail  and  then  to  make  their  own  camp 
for  the  night.  Two  extra  horses  were  easily  obtained, 
and  the  travellers  soon  left  the  little  hill  settlement  and 
began  their  long  overland  journey  to  the  Agency. 


[29] 


CHAPTER  III 

ON    THE    ROAD 

THE  rather  scant  camp  outfit  consisted  mainly  of 
blankets,  destined  for  beds  at  night,  what  few 
articles  of  extra  clothing  Mrs.  Mendenhall  and  Katha- 
rine were  allowed  to  take,  and  abundant  rations  of 
crackers,  bacon,  and  coffee,  sufficient  to  provide  a  live- 
lihood for  several  days,  even  without  the  aid  of  any 
chance  game  that  might  happen  along.  Locke  Ray- 
nor  carried  with  him,  besides,  a  rifle,  slung  across  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle,  and  a  pistol  at  his  belt. 

"  The  rifle  is  for  Mr.  Heap  Big  Brave,  and  the  pistol 
is  for  our  mutual  friend,  the  rattlesnake,"  he  explained, 
lightly,  as  he  stowed  his  weapons  into  their  places. 
"  You  will  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Mendenhall,"  he  added, 
gravely,  observing  her  look  of  sudden  terror.  "  That 
is  just  my  nonsense.  I  only  mean  to  vary  the  monot- 
ony of  a  diet  of  bacon  with  an  occasional  brace  of 
grouse  or  quail  or  ducks  or  —  if  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst  —  a  coyote.  Where  is  your  gun,  Mr.  Hunt?  " 

"May  I  not  share  your  coyote?"  asked  the  young 
priest,  smilingly. 

"  To  the  last  crumb  —  or  I  should  say  bone,"  replied 
Locke.  "  But  are  you  wise?  " 

[30] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

The  priest  looked  back  for  a  moment  at  the  rapidly 
vanishing  little  town  now  almost  lost  in  the  grasp  of 
the  rugged  hills.  It  marked  the  boundary  of  the 
earlier  Territorial  settlements.  Beyond  was  the  vast 
Indian  country.  Then  his  glance  rested  upon  the  two 
gentlewomen  from  the  world  that  had  once  been  his  — - 
refined,  unaccustomed,  aristocratic,  trusting,  as  help- 
less, if  the  worst  befell,  as  lost  babies,  and  he  bowed  his 
head  in  silence  for  a  moment.  When  he  looked  up, 
there  was  a  serene  prescience  on  his  fine  face. 

"  That  is  my  belief,"  he  said.  "  I  pray  God  that  I 
speak  not  out  of  mine  own  conceit." 

"  But  consider,"  urged  Locke,  in  a  low  voice.  "  It 
is  surely  not  a  question  of  sentiment  or  even  of  belief. 
It  is  not  the  time  to  seek  to  prove  or  disprove  a  creed 
or  a  stubborn  personal  opinion.  Gentlewomen  have 
been  intrusted  to  our  care.  As  men  — " 

"Did  you  think  I  wouldn't  fight?"  asked  the  Mis- 
sionary, with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"  What  could  you  do  unarmed?  " 

"  I  could  —  keep  the  faith,"  said  Hugh  Hunt. 

They  rode  until  the  late  dusk  of  the  Summer's  day 
had  fallen  and  the  solitude  of  the  lonely  trail  was  merged 
in  the  deeper  solitude  of  the  coming  night.  The  heat 
clouds  had  passed  away,  and  a  white  afterglow  lay  like 
a  silver  stream  upon  the  Western  horizon.  It  was  so 
still  that  the  murmur  of  the  swiftly  gliding  water  was 
the  one  dominant  note  in  the  quiet  tones  of  the  even- 
ing. 

They  pitched  their  camp  on  a  level  space  close  to  the 
[31] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

river,  tethered  their  horses  on  the  grassy  slope  inland; 
and  then,  while  Katharine  and  her  mother  looked  on  in 
weary  wonder,  the  men  built  an  immense  camp  fire  of 
driftwood,  deftly  sliced  and  toasted  strings  of  bacon, 
using  long,  pointed,  green  sticks  for  toasting  forks, 
and  skilfully  pulling  in  just  in  time  to  save  the  deli- 
cious morsels  before  the  stick  burned  through.  These 
they  placed  upon  crackers  and  served  to  the  tired  and 
hungry  guests  with  elaborate  politeness.  Even  the  cof- 
fee tasted  good,  although  made  with  the  muddy  un- 
settled water  of  the  Missouri  and  quaffed  from  tin 
cups. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Locke  Raynor,  gayly.  "  We  '11 
have  things  just  fit  for  our  breakfast."  He  washed 
the  coffee  pot  with  an  unusual  display  of  energy,  filled 
it  with  fresh  water,  and  placed  it  carefully  aside  under 
a  small  cluster  of  cool-leaved  baby  cottonwoods.  "  It 
will  be  as  clear  as  crystal  in  the  morning,"  he  said, 
confidently. 

"  But  you  have  only  one  coffee  pot  and  nothing  else 
that  will  hold  water  large  enough  for  the  purpose," 
objected  Katharine.  "  What  will  you  do  with  the 
clear  water  while  you  dispose  of  the  dregs  ?  " 

"  That 's  to-morrow's  tangle,"  he  laughed,  good- 
humoredly,  "  and  let 's  not  drink  our  coffee  till  we  get 
it." 

And  then,  because  they  must  be  astir  very  early  in 
the  morning,  he  ordered  them  all  to  their  leafy  couches. 
The  men  had  cut  down  the  rank  undergrowth  and  had 
gathered  grass  and  tender  shoots,  so  that  the  couches 

[32] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

were  fairly  comfortable,  though  the  dark,  brooding, 
star-shot  sky  was  their  only  canopy. 

"  But  you  have  given  us  more  than  our  share  of 
blankets,"  protested  Mrs.  Mendenhall,  weakly.  She 
was  very  tired,  too  tired  to  reason,  but  she  felt  the 
kindness. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  sit  up  to  keep  the  mosquitoes  out  of 
camp,"  said  Locke,  lightly. 

"Not  all  night,"  said  Katharine,  firmly.  "If  a 
watch  is  necessary,  we  shall  take  our  turns." 

"  Only  as  a  precaution  to  insure  the  presence  of  our 
horses  in  the  morning.  We  should  find  ourselves  some- 
what handicapped  if  they  should  break  loose  or  be 
stolen.  At  midnight,  I  shall  change  places  with  the 
priest,  so  you  see  one  pair  of  blankets  will  be  ample 
for  us  both." 

Katharine  could  not  sleep.  It  was  so  still,  and  the 
night  was  so  big  and  mysterious,  and  she  ached  so  from 
her  unaccustomed  riding.  Her  mother,  utterly  ex- 
hausted, slept  soundly  by  her  side.  But  her  mother  was 
going  home.  Why  should  her  sleep  not  be  natural 
and  sweet?  She  was  going  home  to  the  sheltering  arms 
of  her  rightful  mate  —  the  coming  together  of  whom, 
perhaps,  had  been  planned  aeons  ago  —  before  the 
world  began  —  perhaps  in  one  of  those  luminous  star 
worlds  that  burned  so  steadily  up  there  in  the  soft  sky. 
This  man  was  her  —  Katharine's  —  father,  and  she 
loved  him  better  than  any  other  man  in  all  the  world; 
and  yet  it  was  different  —  her  going  and  her  moth- 
er's. Was  there  a  destiny  for  her  written  up  there 
*  [33] 


rr  H  E         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

somewhere  in  one  of  those  distant  stars?  If  so,  which 
one  held  the  scroll?  And  was  there  anything  written 
therein  that  said  that  Katharine  Mendenhall's  life  should 
be  cruelly  bent  right  in  the  middle  and  that  henceforth 
her  path  must  forsake  the  old  pleasant,  peaceful,  com- 
panioned way,  and  be  merged  in  the  trail  of  the  savage 
and  the  crude  frontier?  Or  was  it  only  heartless  chance, 
unforeseen  of  fate  fanciers,  that  had  brought  her  here? 
What  ruled  human  destinies,  anyway?  Some  weird, 
jingling  lines,  unnoted  in  a  happier  day,  came  back  to 
her: 

Into  this  Universe,  and  Why  not  knowing 
Nor  Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing; 

And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  Whither,  willy-nilly  blowing. 

But  might  not  this  exile  be  only  an  episode,  so  slight 
in  the  great  scheme  of  her  destiny,  that  it  served  merely 
as  a  comma  in  the  writing  on  the  scroll?  If  that  was 
so,  perhaps  she  could  live  the  comma  with  a  fair  meas- 
ure of  content. 

A  pack  of  wolves  away  up  in  the  hills  across  the  river 
began  their  dreary  hunting  song.  She  sat  up  in  quick 
alarm.  The  sound  was  startling  and  uncanny  because 
unknown  to  her.  But  the  little  camp  remained  still  and 
undisturbed.  Locke  Raynor  had  dragged  up  a  huge 
drift  log  that  would  hold  the  fire  all  night  and  it  smoul- 
dered with  a  dusky  redness  that  lighted  but  dimly  a 
little  circle  surrounding  it.  Everywhere  was  a  slight 
pungent  odor  of  clean  smoke.  It  came  from  other 
smudges  which  Locke  had  built  beyond  the  slumberers 

[34] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

and  which  served  to  materially  minimize  the  discomforts 
incident  to  the  near  presence  of  mosquitoes.  Locke 
himself  was  in  shadow,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
relaxed  droop  of  the  shoulders,  in  his  whole  quiet,  un- 
afraid attitude  that  spoke  so  plainly  of  strength  and 
capability  that  the  wordless  communication  was  borne 
to  Katharine  at  once,  and  she  was  comforted.  Rolled 
in  a  blanket  on  the  far  edge  of  the  dim  circle  and  almost 
enveloped  in  the  outer  darkness,  lay  the  slight  form  of 
the  Missionary,  sleeping  as  peacefully,  perhaps,  as  he 
had  ever  slept  in  a  soft  bed  of  the  more  indulgent  East. 
The  sound  of  the  rushing  river  was  more  palpable  than 
ever.  There  was  no  moon.  The  light  was  that  of 
the  stars  and  the  dull  glow  of  the  drift  log. 

"  It  is  only  wolves,"  said  Locke.  Was  that  a  mock- 
ing smile  on  his  face?  No,  only  the  play  of  the  flick- 
ering fire.  His  eyes  were  kindly,  inviting.  She  rose 
from  her  rude  couch  and  came  to  the  fire. 

"  There  were  sticks  at  all  angles,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  not  to  disturb  the  sleepers.  "  I  cannot  sleep. 
Let  me  sit  by  the  fire  awhile.  The  wolves  make  me 
homesick." 

"  I  will  cut  away  the  sticks,"  he  said,  at  once.  "  I 
thought  I  had  done  so.  How  stupid  I  was  to  be  sure. 
You  must  be  very  tired." 

"  Wait  a  little.  I  don't  want  to  go  back  yet.  I 
cannot  sleep.  Talk  to  me." 

"What  shall  I  say?" 

"  Are  you  glad  to  go  to  the  Agency  ?  " 

66  Are  you  glad  to  go  to  the  Agency  ?  " 
[35] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  I  asked  you  the  question." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me.  Yes,  I  am  glad  to  go.  Are 
you?" 

"  I  think  I  —  loathe  it,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"  Then  why  do  you  go?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Fate,  maybe.  My  father  was  very 
good.  He  said  I  could  do  as  I  pleased  —  come  with 
my  mother  or  stay  in  the  East  with  friends.  I  don't 
know  why  I  came.  There  is  a  spell  on  me,  I  think.  I 
did  n't  want  to  come,  and  yet  here  I  am." 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"  Horribly." 

"  You  will  soon  get  accustomed  to  your  undesirable 
neighbors,  however,  and  the  soldiers  are  always  here." 

"  What  are  you  making  ?  "  she  asked,  presently,  and 
with  some  curiosity. 

"  Fishing  tackle,"  he  replied,  promptly.  "  We  are 
to  have  a  fine  plump  cat  for  breakfast  —  did  n't  you 
know  that?" 

"  How  tireless  you  are !  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  training  myself  to  the  whether- 
or-no  patience  of  the  pioneer  —  that  is  all." 

"Oh!  Then  you  are  just  from  the  East  —  like 
me?" 

"  I  am  just  from  the  East  —  like  you." 

"  I  wonder  how  long  it  takes  to  make  an  old  settler," 
she  said,  reflectively. 

"  May  I  ask  why  ?  Do  you  wish  to  establish,  thus 
Dearly,  your  claims  to  the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the 

[36] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

first  white  families?  "  he  asked,  gravely  enough,  but  his 
eyes  twinkled. 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  wondering,"  she  said.  "  I  feel  like 
an  old  settler  already." 

"  I  met  a  man  on  the  boat  whose  claim  ante-dates 
yours.  He  was  positively  grizzled  with  his  years  of 
pioneering.  In  fact,  he  was  one  of  the  originals.  To 
quote  his  own  words :  '  I  came  to  this  country  in  — 
let  me  see  —  it  was  shortly  after  the  war,  I  remember, 
because  I  had  drifted  out  here  in  the  hopes  of  falling 
into  something.  A  war  like  that  sort  of  cuts  a  man  away 
from  the  things  he  was  doing  before.  Let  me  see  —  it 
was  in  —  I  remember  the  grasshoppers  came  that  year 
and  ate  up  all  my  sod  watermelons  and  squashes  and 
sweet  corn,  and  so  I  was  forced  to  go  back  to  practic- 
ing law.  That  was  —  pshaw,  how  time  steals  one's 
memory !  The  following  year  was  the  year  of  the  Great 
Treaty,  and  that  was  in  sixty-eight ;  surely,  I  cannot  be 
at  fault  there.  So  my  residence  in  this  country  must 
date  back  to  sixty-seven;  yes,  sir,  to  sixty-seven; 
That 's  a  long  time ! '  " 

"  What  an  old,  old  settler,"  she  laughed,  softly.  "  I 
gladly  acknowledge  his  priority  and  sincerely  trust  that 
my  record  will  never  equal  his.  Are  you  ever  going 
back?" 

"Back  where?" 

"  Back  East." 

"  I  don't  know.     Perhaps,  if  I  fail  to  make  good." 

"  Have  you  a  mission  ?  Everybody  who  comes  here 
[37] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

seems  to  have  a  mission  —  everybody  but  me.  I  wish 
I  had  one,  too." 

"  I  have  one  for  you  —  two  for  you.  .Will  you  ac- 
cept them?  " 

Both  looked  up,  momentarily  startled.  Hugh  Hunt 
stood  before  them  fully  awake,  his  beautiful,  aristo- 
cratic hands  folded  on  his  arms.  His  voice  was  won- 
derfully sweet,  low-toned,  and  penetrating.  The  fire 
flared  up  suddenly  and  sent  a  wavering  shaft  of  light 
across  his  pale  face. 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  whispered  Katharine,  awestricken 
by  the  unseen  but  powerfully  felt  presence  of  something 
diviner  even  than  the  divine  authority  of  this  one  sent, 
whose  slight  frame  seemed  to  tower  to  great  heights  as 
he  stood  there  in  the  flickering  firelight,  while  all  about 
him  was  the  night,  the  dark,  warm,  Summer  night. 

"  Leave  your  unfair  and  ignorant  prejudices  behind 
you  —  here  in  the  dark  where  all  prejudice  has  its  being. 
Always  keep  faith  with  my  Indians.  Because  Inkpa- 
duta,  son  of  the  renegade,  Wamdesapa,  fell  upon  Spirit 
Lake  and  killed  its  people,  we  held  the  Wahpekutas  ac- 
countable, although  they  had  disowned  and  driven  away 
the  renegade  band  more  than  forty  years  before.  Was 
that  keeping  faith?  Try  to  believe  that  for  every  Ink- 
paduta  there  is  a  John  Other  Day,  and  for  every 
Smutty  Bear,  a  Struck-by-the-Ree.  What  if  I  die  and 
you  die  and  the  Indian  is  still  a  Savage  at  heart?  Is 
nothing  then  worth  while?  It  took  nineteen  Christian 
centuries  to  make  you  and  me  what  we  are  —  a  peculiar 
people.  That  is  the  end  of  my  firstly.  My  secondly 

[38] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

is  — "  he  paused  and  looked  at  her  so  searchingly  that 
she  was  strangely  moved.  It  was  as  if  he  summoned  her 
in  that  soul  search  to  grow  into  the  ideal  of  his  divine 
conception  of  womanhood,  and  she  shivered  a  little,  for 
her  brief,  premonitory  glimpse  of  the  revealed  way 
showed  her  also  that  it  was  a  lonely  way.  "  My 
secondly  is,"  he  repeated,  slowly,  "  make  the  women  — 
like  you.  Why,  I  discover  that  I  have  a  thirdly,"  he 
continued,  smiling.  "  It  is,  go  to  bed.  Already  these 
wolves  scent  the  dawn.  The  sun  must  see  us  on  our 
way." 

To  the  Missionary,  laving  his  face  and  hands  in  the 
swift  stream  in  the  early  morning,  came  Locke  Raynor. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  it  really  means,"  he 
began,  abruptly. 

"  I  think  the  current  was  too  swift  and  it  stole  your 
bait,"  smiled  the  Missionary. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  about  the  empty  hooks,  you  know," 
laughed  Locke.  "  I  mean  this  —  disturbance  of  the 
Indians.  For  that  matter,  I  never  knew  the  time  when 
there  wasn't  a  disturbance  —  especially  dating  from  the 
time  we  began  the  hopeless  task  of  civilizing  them  by 
treating  them  like  white  men.  What  I  mean,  is  there 
anything  in  this  particular  last  disturbance  that  kept 
Major  Mendenhall  from  meeting  his  wife  and  daughter 
at  Yankton  that  will  make  their  sojourn  at  the  Agency 
unpleasant  or  —  dangerous  ?  " 

The  Missionary  towelled  his  face  and  hands  carefully 
before  answering  with  deliberation : 

"  Is  it  treating  Indians  like  white  men  to  herd  them 
[39] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

like  cattle  on  isolated  lands  and  to  feed  them  like  babes 
or  the  feeble-minded?  Only  the  riotous,  profligate  van 
of  civilization  touches  the  frayed  edges  of  their  centuries 
of  superstition  and  prejudice,  while  the  heart  of  them, 
the  great  heart  of  them,  remains  locked  against  you 
and  me,  and  their  passion  for  liberty  and  their  idolatry 
of  the  gods  of  their  fathers  are  guarded  so  secretly  and 
so  tenaciously  and  so  sleeplessly,  that  all  the  puny  blows 
of  civilization's  first  onslaught  to  break  them  and  re- 
construct, are  as  impotent  as  were  winds  and  floods  beat- 
ing upon  the  house  that  was  builded  on  a  rock.  Not 
long  ago  a  good  friend  of  mine,  a  Teton  Chief  from  way 
up  the  river,  said  to  me  that  civilization  seemed  to 
him  a  great  stream  whose  waters  ran  pure  and  clear  in 
mid-channel,  but  whose  banks  were  strewn  with  refuse 
and  filth." 

"  You  are  hard  on  the  van,  Mr.  Hunt.  We  are  not  all 
profligates,  wine-bibbers  and  woman-stealers,"  said 
Locke,  thoughtfully.  "  And  bad  as  the  Army  is  some- 
times, or  individuals  of  it,  the  Church  waited  for  it  to 
make  safe  the  way.  And  is  not  that  as  it  should  be? 
What  is  the  Church  doing  more  than  the  Army  or  the 
Agencies  are  doing  or  backing  up  the  Church  in 
doing?  » 

"  Mr.  Raynor,"  and  he  lifted  his  great,  luminous  eyes 
to  the  Western  hills,  "  the  Church  is  seeking  —  often 
weary,  often  sad,  often  lonely,  but  always  seeking  — 
the  key  of  understanding  that  will  unlock  those  great, 
mysterious,  superstition-shadowed  hearts  to  the  light  and 
warmth  and  manliness  of  the  Christ  and  the  fellowship 

[40] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

that  he  has  bequeathed  to  all  the  world.  We  want  to 
maintain  their  manhood,  not  to  crush  it  out  by  force, 
corrupt  it  by  evil  communication,  or  degrade  it  by  tak- 
ing from  them  the  self-respect  and  self-reliance  that  are 
the  high  and  just  rewards  of  earning  their  own  liveli- 
hood ;  and  that  right  is  man's  by  right  of  birth." 

"  I  stand  rebuked,"  said  Locke,  "  and  God  knows  you 
handful  of  fearless  seekers  go  alone  where  other  men 
go  in  companies  or  regiments.  But  it  all  seems  so  hope- 
less. If  the  Sioux  indulge  in  rapine  and  murder  less  fre- 
quently than  of  yore,  must  we  not  in  honesty  say  that  it 
is  because  of  the  wholesome  fear  which  they  bear  toward 
the  Great  Father  at  Washington,  and  his  efficient  armies  ? 
And  not  because  of  a  change  of  heart?  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  subdue  them  altogether  right  in  the  beginning 
and  then  teach  them  the  new  religion?  " 

"  Is  Christianity,  then,  a  religion  for  weaklings  and 
degenerates  ?  "  cried  the  Missionary,  strongly.  "  Let 
this  people  keep  their  manhood  before  everything.  Let 
them  be  men  even  before  they  are  Christians."  His  ex- 
pression became  rapt,  prophetic.  "  What  if  to-day,  in 
their  childish  love  of  form  and  mystery,  they  gather  here 
on  these  rugged  bluffs  or  on  yonder  illimitable  plain, 
to  look  at  the  spotless  garment  of  the  Indians'  Apostle 
-  him  they  call  White  Robe  —  with  awe  and  wonder,  to 
delight  in  the  strange  and  solemn  music  of  hymns,  and 
to  pray  to  the  —  unknown  God;  and  to-morrow,  with 
their  belief  in  necromantic  trickery  seemingly  undimmed, 
present  their  prize  ponies  to  some  wakcm-man  for  his 
fancied  aid  in  driving  out  an  evil  spirit?  Will  not 

[41] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAII1 

the  day  after  that  be  again  the  day  of  the  White  Robe 
and  the  —  unknown  God?  And,  my  friend,  which  do 
you  believe  will  prevail  in  the  last  great  day?  You 
asked  me,"  he  continued,  as  if  answering  a  question  just 
propounded,  "  what  effect  the  present  unrest  among  all 
the  Sioux  tribes  will  have  upon  the  life  at  the  Agency. 
The  Brule  and  Crow  Creek  Indians,  though  wild  and 
somewhat  unruly,  are  friendly  enough  to  the  whites. 
They  like  Major  Mendenhall.  If  there  is  trouble,  it 
will  be  with  the  western  tribes.  Mr.  Raynor,  the  ladies 
are  waiting  for  us." 

The  little  party  journeyed  the  north  trail  all  that 
long  Summer  day  with  conscientious  perseverance. 
They  met  no  human  being  between  stage  houses.  At 
noon,  burned  and  travel-stained,  they  rode  into  White 
Swan,  just  across  the  river  from  Fort  Randall,  which  in 
that  day  was  the  centre  of  military  operations  in  the 
lower  Dakota  Indian  country.  From  Fort  Randall, 
soldiers  were  sent  to  any  of  the  Agencies  where  there 
was  trouble  with  the  Indians,  and  there  they  remained 
until  the  incipient  excitement  was  quelled  or  the  in- 
subordination summarily  dealt  with.  In  fact,  that 
whole  region  up  and  down  the  great  river  for  many, 
many  miles  was  dominated  by  the  troops  at  Fort  Ran- 
dall. At  White  Swan,  on  the  north  bank,  which  was 
a  distributing  point,  there  were  only  a  trader's  store  and 
a  mess-house.  Here  for  an  hour  or  so  Major  Men  den- 
hall's  friends  rested;  and  here,  gazing  steadily  across 
the  white  glare  of  the  sun  on  the  water  to  the  green 
hills  beyond,  where  the  walls  of  the  fort  swam  peacefully 

[42] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

in  the  shimmering  sunlight,  Hugh  Hunt  pondered  many 
things.  His  chief  thought  was  how  soon,  if  ever,  these 
sunny  hills  and  yon  rolling  distances  would  resound  to 
a  war-cry,  never  yet  so  loud  because  never  yet,  perhaps, 
had  hearth  and  home  of  a  free  people  been  threatened 
with  so  base,  so  arrogant,  so  flagrant  an  usurpation; 
how  soon,  if  ever,  the  stream,  trickling  to  the  river 
would  run  red  with  the  blood  of  two  haughty  races,  both 
conquerors  in  their  day,  never  yet  so  red  because  never 
yet,  perhaps,  had  a  hunted  people  been  so  near  the  end 
of  their  pitiful  remnant  of  resources  that  they  must 
perforce  turn  at  bay  and  fight  the  hunter  to  the  death. 
He  had  gone  to  meet  the  Indians'  Apostle,  overborne  with 
the  weight  of  this  terrible  thing  which  must  come  to 
pass  as  surely  as  the  stars  kept  to  their  courses,  unless 
—  a  film  came  over  his  brilliant  eyes  —  yes,  unless  the 
Indians'  Apostle  found  a  way  to  shock  out  of  its  rabid 
course  this  evil  cancer  of  land  lust  and,  more  despotic 
still,  the  gold  lust.  For  he,  having  fellowship  with  some 
of  those  who  knew  what  their  mountains  held  but  who 
knew  how  to  keep  their  secret,  realized  that  the  lust  of 
gold  must  one  day  —  God  alone  knew  when  —  lay  its 
tyrannical  hold  upon  men.  This  meeting  with  the  Mis- 
sionary  Bishop  at  Yankton  had  been  a  revelation.  All 
his  hurt  and  weariness  and  bitter  soul  cry  of  "  No  use, 
no  use,"  had  dropped  from  him  like  a  ragged,  weather- 
stained  outer  garment,  discarded  because  he  had  come 
home.  He  had  left  the  compassionate  presence  of  the 
prelate  a  prophet.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  di- 
vine soul-purpose  and  from  his  heart  he  believed  that  the 

[43] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Apostle  would  find  a  way  to  avert  the  awful  calamity, 
although  the  task  was  the  more  colossal  because  he  had 
been  sent  to  the  Indians  only. 

"  We  must  be  going,  Mr.  Hunt." 

Locke  Raynor's  voice  came  to  him  as  from  another 
world. 

"  You  have  been  day-dreaming.  I  hesitated  to  disturb 
you  but  the  sun  is  already  long  past  the  meridian." 

Hugh  Hunt,  the  dreamer,  brushed  his  hand  before  his 
eyes,  smiled,  rose,  and  they  once  more  pursued  their 
journey. 

As  that  third  day  wore  on,  the  country  became 
wilder-looking  and  more  and  more  rugged  and  lonely. 
Heat  clouds  again  formed  before  the  sun,  making  the 
ride  much  more  endurable,  unprotected  as  the  riders 
were  by  sun-shade  or  sombrero.  Even  so,  white  lines  of 
utter  weariness  began  showing  around  Mrs.  Menden- 
hall's  plucky  mouth,  and  even  Katharine's  proud  head 
had  a  pathetic  little  droop;  but  neither  would  suggest 
a  halt.  It  was  very  warm,  despite  the  cloud,  and  as 
evening  approached,  the  clouds  mobilized  and  began  pil- 
ing up  all  along  the  line  of  the  western  horizon. 

Pressing  on  yet  a  little  farther,  seeking  a  more  fitting 
spot  for  their  camp,  and  about  to  skirt  a  hill,  they  were 
suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  a  small  band  of 
Indians,  all  mounted,  all  bearing  white  men's  weapons, 
and  all  clad  from  crown  to  toe  in  full  war  paraphernalia 
of  paint  and  feather.  The  meeting  was  plainly  un- 
expected on  both  sides.  The  Indians,  who  had  rounded 

[44] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

the  curve  at  a  uniform  canter  as  if  to  make  a  certain 
goal  before  the  sun  set,  drew  rein  so  quickly  that  their 
intrepid  little  ponies  settled  back  almost  upon  their 
haunches.  The  quiet  of  coming  night  was  upon  all  the 
land  —  man-free  for  many  miles  of  primeval  solitude, 
save  for  the  four  white  people,  Agency-bound,  and  the 
dozen  painted,  incongruous  Sioux  braves  —  or  was  it 
the  little  group  of  wanderers  from  the  crippled  Far  West 
who  were  the  incongruous  ones?  Mrs.  Mendenhall  and 
Katharine  had  turned  as  white  as  death.  Involuntarily, 
Locke's  hand  dropped  to  his  rifle,  but  a  touch  from  the 
Missionary  stayed  him. 

"  I  warn  you,"  said  Locke  to  the  priest,  determinedly, 
"  that  I  am  ready,  and  at  the  least  hostile  movement  I 
shall  kill.  Remember  you  have  no  weapon." 

He  who  seemed  to  be  the  War  Chief  of  the  Indians, 
glanced  at  the  speaker,  carelessly.  If  he  understood  the 
action  or  the  words,  he  made  no  sign. 

"  Peace  be  with  you,  my  children,"  said  the  Mission- 
ary, adopting  the  quaint  phraseology  of  an  elder  day. 
He  spoke  to  them  in  Dakota.  "  We  had  hoped  to  lodge 
at  Bijou  Hills  to-night,  but  the  night  finds  us  still  many 
miles  away.  Can  you  tell  us  where  there  is  a  favorable 
camping  spot  hereabouts  ?  " 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  he  received  an  answer  in  fair 
English  from  the  Chief. 

"  The  Slender  Ash  is  far  from  home." 

Instantly,  the  Missionary's  face  lighted  up,  the  re- 
lief of  recognition  dissipating  the  shadow  that  had  hov- 

[45] 


.THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

ered  there  since  this  accidental  meeting,  when  he  realized 
that  the  lives  or  liberty  of  two  helpless  women  perhaps 
rested  upon  his  rash  faith  and  on  one  rifle. 

"  Running  Bird ! "  he  cried,  riding  forward.  The 
two  men  shook  hands,  Hugh  Hunt  with  unaffected  heart- 
iness, the  young  Indian  with  grave  ceremoniousness. 
The  rest  of  the  band  remained  passive  during  this  meet- 
ing of  the  friends,  making  no  movement,  hostile  or  other- 
wise. "  You  are  also  far  from  home." 

"  Not  so  far  as  I  shall  be  when  the  sun  sets  again,'* 
said  the  young  Chief,  meaningly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Running  Bird?  "  said  the  Mis- 
sionary, a  sternness  creeping  into  his  voice.  "  And  why 
are  you  so  far  away  from  your  home?  Did  the  Major 
grant  you  leave  of  absence  and  sanction  this  hideous 
putting  on  of  the  garments  of  the  unbeliever?  Your 
Elder  Brother  does  n't  know  you  decked  out  as  you  are. 
Have  you  forgotten  ?  " 

"  The  son  of  Little  Thunder  does  not  forget,"  said 
the  Indian,  gravely.  "  When  he  hears  the  echo  of  the 
white  man's  tread  in  the  hills,  he  remembers  Ash  Hollow. 
There  are  many  who  do  not  forget." 

"  Where  are  you  going  now?  " 

"  The  son  of  Little  Thunder  is  a  free  man,"  said 
Running  Bird,  calmly.  "  Who  says  to  the  wind, 
6  Whither  goest  thou?  '  " 

Almost  numb  with  dread  as  she  was,  Katharine  yet 
looked  at  the  young  Indian  in  astonishment  not  un- 
mingled  with  admiration.  The  voice  was  musical,  the 
language  good,  the  spirit  of  it  irresistibly  appealing. 

[46] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

"  But  I  who  am  sent  by  the  White  Robe,  I  who  am 
trying  to  teach  you  the  way  of  our  Elder  Brother  when 
he  said,  '  When  ye  pray  say,  Our  Father,'  I  ask  you, 
Running  Bird,  whither  goest  thou  ?  " 

Immediately  there  were  guttural  sounds  of  disapproval 
from  the  throats  of  a  number  of  the  band,  showing  that 
their  leader  was  not  the  only  one  who  understood  Eng- 
lish. They  fell  to  discussing  the  matter  in  Dakota  with 
some  excitement,  during  the  progress  of  which  their 
unintelligible  speech  and  earnest  gesticulations  were  most 
alarming  to  the  two  women. 

"  Why  push  the  matter?  "  counselled  Locke,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Our  friends  are  extremely  nervous.  This  is 
their  first  experience.  Mrs.  Mendenhall  is  on  the  verge 
of  a  collapse.  -Major  Mendenhall  will  doubtless  send 
out  at  once  to  reclaim  this  truant  band,  if  they  are  bent 
on  an  errand  of  mischief.  Let  us  wish  them  God-speed 
and  part  company  at  once." 

"  The  ladies  need  have  no  fear,"  said  Hugh  Hunt, 
turning  to  them,  confidently.  "  Running  Bird  is  my 
friend.  I  have  broken  bread  with  him.  I  have  slept  in 
his  lodge.  We  are  among  friends." 

"  But  can  one  vouch  for  a  corresponding  good-will 
on  the  part  of  this  fellow's  followers  ?  "  argued  Locke, 
wisely.  "  I  confess  to  an  ignorance  of  their  manners 
and  customs ;  but  if  they  were  white  men  now,  I  should 
say  that  some  of  them  had  been  drinking.  In  the  East, 
they  tell  me  fire-water  plays  the  devil  with  your  Tetons." 

The  Missionary  bowed  his  head  in  thought;  then  he 
raised  it  with  a  quiet  finality  that  saw  no  other  way. 


.THE        SPIRIT        TRAIU 

"  Running  Bird  is  a  great  leader  among  the  young 
men.  I  trust  him  absolutely.  It  is  not  the  braves  who 
are  the  stumbling  block  in  the  way  of  civilization  and 
Christianity  among  the  Dakotas,  but  the  medicine  men. 
I  see  Sitting  Bull's  wily  and  malevolent  influence  behind 
this  movement  —  his  and  that  of  others  of  his  vicious 
pretensions  to  occult  knowledge  of  the  mysteries.  Theirs 
is  the  evil  genius  that  keeps  in  active  ferment  resistance 
to  the  white  man's  ways  and  the  white  man's  God.  The 
poison  is  in  the  air.  It  has  travelled  rapidly  on  the 
wind  from  the  western  pot  where  it  was  brewed.  It 
has  tainted  even  the  peaceful  Santees,  Yanktons  and 
Yanktonais.  Can  we  wonder  to  find  the  restless  Brules 
affected?  Who  can  say  where  the  contagion  will  not 
spread?  " 

"  Our  wise  men  tell  us,"  said  the  Chief,  at  last,  "  that 
the  spirits  have  warned  them  that  the  Great  Father  will 
not  keep  faith  with  the  Indian.  The  Great  Father's 
children  want  our  land.  He  loves  his  children.  He  will 
give  them  the  land.  But  we  will  keep  our  land.  There 
is  nowhere  else  for  the  Indian  to  go.  Once  our  fathers 
hunted  in  the  land  of  the  rising  sun.  But  the  Great 
Father  drove  them  across  the  big  river.  Where  now 
shall  he  send  us?  We  will  keep  our  land.  Tell  Major 
Mendenhall  I  shake  hands  with  him  and  we  will  return  in 
twelve  sleeps." 

"  The  Great  Father  has  promised.  Can  you  not  trust 
him?" 

"  Our  wise  men  tell  us  that  he  will  not  keep  faith," 
persisted  Running  Bird,  stubbornly. 

[48] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

"  Your  wakan-men  lie  when  they  pretend  to  propitiate 
demons  by  barbarous  rites  and  outlandish  dances  and  in- 
cantations. You  know  that.  Are  they  not  lying  when 
they  say  that  our  Great  Father  at  Washington  does  not 
love  his  red  children?  Has  he  not  kept  Red  Cloud's 
treaty  faithfully?" 

"  But  many  bands  of  Dakotas  are  gathering.  They 
are  all  afraid.  He  has  sent  his  great  War  Chief  to  in- 
vade our  land." 

"  May  it  not  be  to  keep  out  white  invaders  that  your 
father  sends  his  War  Chief  to  the  Black  Hills  so  that 
the  land  may  be  held  inviolate  for  the  Dakota  nation? 
And  will  you,  who  have  sworn  friendship  to  me,  and 
through  me  to  my  people,  will  you  then  throw  it  all 
away  and  link  yourselves  with  those  wild  tribes  of  your 
race  who  know  not  what  they  do,  or  join  those  worse 
bands  of  robbers  and  murderers,  who,  perhaps,  know- 
ing, yet  do  not  care,  thus  calling  down  the  just  wrath 
and  vengeance  of  the  Government  upon  you  —  and  often 
misunderstanding,  and  punishment  to  innocent  ones  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  will  be.  I  will  talk  with  my 
young  men.  My  brother  has  a  smooth  tongue.  Doubt- 
less he  speaks  truth,"  said  the  Indian  politely.  "  But 
if  the  white  War  Chief  steals  our  land,  then  I  shall  know 
that  the  white  man's  God  is  not  the  Indian's  God.  We 
shall  see." 

"  These  gentlewomen  are  Major  Mendenhall's  wife  and 
daughter,  Running  Bird." 

"  I  shake  hands  with  Major  Mendenhall's  wife  and 
daughter,"  said  the  chief,  gravely. 
4  [49]  ' 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Instantly,  there  was  commotion.  The  Indians  seemed 
to  be  insisting  on  something,  and  punctuating  their  de- 
mands with  violent  gestures  of  command;  and  when  our 
little  party  started  forward,  the  red  of  the  angry  sunset 
shining  in  their  faces  and  making  the  abundant  hair  of 
Katharine  Mendenhall  to  shine  with  the  gleam  of  real 
gold,  they  closed  in  around  them  and  stopped  them  from 
further  progress,  keeping  up  a  continuous  chatter  in 
their  native  tongue  all  the  while.  When  a  hand  was 
laid  on  Katharine's  bridle  rein,  Locke  Raynor's  fighting 
blood  leaped  to  the  surface  and  he  struck  down  the  dusky 
arm,  angrily,  and  then  jerked  his  rifle  free. 

"  Now,  sir,"  he  cried,  sharply,  "  show  your  colors ! 
You  said  you  would  fight !  " 

But  above  the  sudden  tumult,  Running  Bird  began  to 
speak.  He  spoke  directly  to  the  Missionary.  Was 
there  something  of  contempt  in  his  voice? 

"  Let  your  young  man  put  down  his  gun.  He  does 
not  understand.  My  young  men  want  only  that  you 
lodge  with  us  this  sleep.  They  want  the  sunny-haired 
one  to  rest  with  them  a  little.  They  mean  her  no  harm. 
They  will  make  a  feast.  They  are  glad  the  Agent's 
wife  and  daughter  are  come.  They  will  make  a  feast 
and  the  wife  and  daughter  will  lodge  in  the  tipi." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  cried  Katharine,  in  terror.  "  Oh, 
please,  no !  We  must  go  on.  We  cannot  stay  with  you, 
Mr. —  Mr. —  Running  Bird.  We  must  go  on,  must  n't 
we?  "  she  cried,  appealingly,  to  her  friends. 

"  I  will  tell  my  young  men,"  said  the  chief,  simply. 
[SO] 


ON        THE        ROAD 

"  You  have  passed  the  good  place  for  your  camp.     Here 
one  spot  is  as  good  as  another.     All  bad." 

He  said  something  to  them  in  their  own  language. 
One  or  two  cast  mutinous  glances  toward  the  whites, 
but  without  a  word  in  reply  the  whole  company  rode 
forward  out  of  the  valley.  Soon  the  last  feather  had  4 
disappeared  behind  the  bluff.  There  was  something  of 
majesty  in  the  slow,  silent  slipping  away.  When 
they  had  entirely  gone,  the  sun  was  set  and  the 
afterglow  glared  redly  and  threateningly  through  rifts 
of  ragged  cloud  banks.  The  gloom  of  approaching 
night  and  storm,  and  the  shadow  left  by  the  unexpected 
meeting  with  errant  Indians,  together  with  the  solemnity 
of  the  vast,  surrounding  space,  settled  down  upon  the 
wanderers.  The  Major's  sorely  tried  little  wife  broke 
down  and  cried,  softly. 

"  Please  don't,  little  mother,"  comforted  Katharine. 
"  They  are  gone  now,  and  we  are  safe.  And  to-morrow, 
if  all  goes  well,  we  shall  sleep  at  home." 

"  I  know  they  will  come  back !  "  wailed  Mrs.  Menden- 
hall. 

"  Many  of  them  are  friendly  Indians,"  volunteered  the 
Missionary.  "  This  demonstration  was  not  a  real  war 
party.  They  desire  only  to  show  what  they  would  do 
if  the  Government  breaks  faith  with  them." 

"  Odd  way  of  showing  it  —  decking  themselves  out 
like  devils,"  said  Locke  Raynor,  curtly. 


[511 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    STORM 

THAT  night  a  great  storm  broke  over  them.  They 
had  chosen  their  camp  so  late  that  they  had  not 
had  time  to  choose  it  wisely.  They  had  wandered 
slightly  from  the  trail,  and  found  themselves  once  more 
close  to  the  river.  Their  only  protection  was  the  small 
trees  growing  out  of  the  low,  damp,  sandy  shore.  The 
thunder  was  terrific,  peal  following  peal  with  a  con- 
tinuity that  was  awful.  The  incessant  lightning  luridly 
illumined  the  angry,  drifting,  boiling  clouds.  A  wild 
wind  sprang  up  and  leaped  to  earth  with  a  roar  that 
well-nigh  equalled  the  crack  of  the  thunder.  It  lashed 
the  river  until  the  water  cried  aloud  and  rushed  moaning 
down  its  course.  The  trees  rocked  and  groaned  and 
cracked.  And  to  increase  the  discomfort  of  the  campers, 
innumerable  sand-fleas  bit  and  stung. 

"  The  rain  will  soon  be  here ! "  cried  Locke  Raynor, 
above  the  tumult  of  the  elements. 

At  that  moment  a  figure  appeared  in  the  flickering 
light  of  the  wind-blown  camp-fire.  Wrapped  in  an  In- 
dian blanket,  standing  there  tall  and  straight,  he  seemed 
like  some  incarnate  spirit  of  the  storm.  Although  di- 
vested of  much  of  his  finery  of  the  earlier  evening,  his 

[52] 


THE        STORM 

war  bonnet  discarded,  in  place  of  which  quivered  a  single 
eagle's  feather,  his  face  cleansed  of  its  paint,  yet  his- 
splendid  form,  lean  and  sinewy,  could  not  be  mistaken 
even  had  he  not  retained  the  striking  necklace  of  bears' 
claws  around  his  throat. 

"  The  rain  is  coming.  It  will  beat  the  sunny-haired 
one  into  the  sand.  It  is  not  well  for  him  sent  of  the 
White  Robe  to  be  in  the  storm.  The  Dakota  asks  the 
white  man  to  come  to  his  camp  out  of  the  storm." 

His  voice  though  not  loud  was  clear  and  rose  above 
the  sounding  river,  the  roar  of  the  trees,  and  the  crash 
of  the  thunder. 

"  What  say  you  ?  "  cried  Hugh  Hunt  to  his  com- 
panions. 

"  Have  a  care !  "  warned  Locke  Raynor.  "  May  it 
not  be  a  trap  ?  " 

Out  of  the  shadow  crept  the  sunny-haired  one.  Kath- 
arine Mendenhall  had  wrestled  with  her  childish  terror 
and  frantic  grasping  after  the  established  order  of  her 
life,  there  in  the  darkness  and  the  storm,  and  had  worsted 
them,  so  that  they  slunk  away  and  were  carried  whining 
down  the  turbulent  river. 

"  Running  Bird,"  she  asked,  firmly,  "  have  you  a 
tent?" 

"  Yes,  Sun-in-the-hair." 

"  Is  it  far?  " 

"  The  storm  was  coming.  We  did  not  go  far.  Our 
camp  is  down  in  the  thick  willows." 

"  We  will  go  at  once,"  said  Katharine. 

"  Miss  Mendenhall,"  began  Locke,  seriously. 
[53] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Lead  the  way,  Running  Bird,"  said  Katharine,  de- 
terminedly. "  My  mother  cannot  live  through  this 
night  unless  we  have  shelter.  Let  us  hasten !  " 

Running  Bird  turned  and  silently  slipped  into  the 
darkness.  They  followed  him  with  great  difficulty,  so 
swift  and  sure  was  his  own  step,  so  halting  and  groping 
theirs.  When  at  last  the  gleam  of  the  Indian  fires 
shone  before  them  with  myriads  of  sparks  shot  by  the 
gale  darting  hither  and  yon  and  skyward,  and  dusky 
forms  lounged  in  their  light,  Running  Bird  paused  and 
waited  for  the  whites  to  join  him. 

"  Let  your  young  man  be  poor  in  words  this  night,'* 
he  said,  moodily,  to  the  priest,  in  his  own  language. 
"  My  young  men  have  swallowed  the  red  fire  in  the  water 
the  white  man  makes  to  destroy  his  Indian  children. 
Your  young  man  talks  too  much." 

He  would  have  gone  on  his  way  without  further  speech 
but  Hugh  Hunt  stopped  him. 

"Who  has  done  this  thing,  my  brother?  Who  has 
broken  the  law  of  the  great  wise  Father  who  knows  the 
poison  that  is  in  the  fire-water,  and  wills  not  that 
the  Dakotas  drink  it  to  their  undoing?  He  will  pun- 
ish the  evil-doer." 

The  priest's  voice  was  searching  but  vibrant  with  feel- 
ing, too.  He  yearned  mightily  after  this  proud,  hitter, 
strong,  manly  man.  Perhaps  it  was  he  who  had  won  the 
Missionary's  passionate  appeal  for  his  simple  manhood 
to  be  left  to  him  because  it  was  his  great  glory.  Run- 
ning Bird  pondered  a  moment  and  then  answered  with 
gloomy,  unconscious  irony: 

[54] 


THE        STORM 

"  The  Slender  Ash  is  very  credulous.  He  believes 
many  things  which  are  not  true.  How  then  shall  we 
know  that  his  wakan  stories  are  true  —  his  Christ  man 
and  his  cross  ?  I  should  like  to  believe  them  because  the 
Slender  Ash  believes  them ;  but  the  Slender  Ash  believes 
the  Great  Father  did  not  mean  Ash  Hollow,  and  that 
he  is  sorry.  He  believes  the  Great  Father  does  not 
want  the  Dakotas  to  drink  fire-water.  Why,  then,  does 
he  let  bad  men  bring  it  to  us  and  demand  skins  and 
meat  and  gold  in  return.  Is  the  Great  Father  afraid  or 
is  he  a  woman?  The  Slender  Ash  believes  that  the 
Great  Father  knows  the  poison  in  fire-water.  Why  then 
does  the  Great  Father  allow  it  to  be  made  ?  The  Slender 
Ash  believes  lies,"  he  concluded,  dispassionately. 

"  But  you  are  sad  because  your  young  men  are  drunk 
with  it,"  persisted  Hugh,  disregarding  the  first  warning 
beat  of  rain  drops  upon  his  uplifted  face. 

"  My  heart  is  very  heavy  because  of  it,"  said  the 
Indian. 

"  Then  tell  me  who  did  it,  Running  Bird,"  pleaded 
Hugh,  "  for  I,  too,  am  heavy  in  my  heart  because  of 
it." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then,  because  you  have  eaten  with 
me  and  slept  with  me  and  are  my  friend.  Peter  Dorsey 
sold  it  to  Mad  Wolf  for  a  fine  buffalo  skin  of  the  early 
Winter's  scraping.  Mad  Wolf  traded  for  it  when  my 
eyes  were  gone  from  me  for  a  little  while  seeking 
which  way  the  son  of  Little  Thunder  should  lead  his 
Dakotas." 

He  shook  off  the  priest's  hold  gently  and  was  gone. 
[55] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

"I  —  I  —  can't,"  moaned  Mrs.  Mendenhall.  "  Let 
us  go  back !  " 

Even  Katharine  hesitated,  shuddering,  her  face  show- 
ing pale  and  pinched  when  the  lightning  flared. 
Though  none  realized  the  actual  danger  so  well  as  the 
priest  because  they  had  understood  nothing  of  the  con- 
versation, they  faltered.  The  group  around  the  fire 
was  growing  noisy.  The  men  still  retained  their  warlike 
habiliments.  Running  Bird  alone,  in  deference  to  the 
white  man,  had  thrown  his  aside. 

"What  shall  we  do,  Mr.  Hunt?"  asked  Katharine, 
helplessly. 

"  Trust  Running  Bird,"  he  returned,  simply. 

"  And  I  can  fight,"  said  Locke,  grimly. 

A  literal  sheet  of  water  falling  at  that  moment  and 
wrapping  them  in  its  dripping  folds  decided  them. 
Without  further  words,  they  hastened  forward  and  were 
once  more  in  the  presence  of  the  savages.  Calmly,  un- 
questioningly,  absolutely,  they  gave  themselves  into  the 
Iceeping  of  Running  Bird,  son  of  Little  Thunder,  a 
hereditary  chief  of  the  Brule  Sioux. 

The  thick  growth  of  willows  of  the  Indians'  camping 
ground  shut  out  much  of  the  rain  and  wind,  and  the 
tipis  were  waterproof.  There  were  two  of  these  and 
one  was  given  over  entirely  to  the  use  of  Hugh  Hunt 
and  his  friends.  But  there  was  little  sleep.  Perhaps 
all  but  the  Missionary  feared  treachery.  All  night  the 
trees  rocked  and  groaned,  with  nothing  to  keep  out 
their  terrible  sounding  but  smoke-blackened  and  weather- 
stained  canvas  walls,  and  the  groaning  served  as  a 

[56] 


THE        STORM 

weird  accompaniment  to  the  all-night  carousal  of  the 
drunken  Indians  in  the  other  tipi.  The  call  to  make 
a  showing-  against  white  encroachment  on  the  Great 
Reservation  had  been  enough  to  stir  their  blood  to 
white  heat.  The  drink  had  made  them  mad.  After  an 
unusually  loud  burst  of  thunder,  when  the  mystery  that 
rode  it  like  a  god  had  partially  sobered  their  supersti- 
tious souls  until  they  quaked  in  fear,  Mad  Wolf  arose 
and  harangued  them.  He  told  them  that  the  thunder 
was  telling  them  to  kill  the  white  man  before  he  snatched 
away  their  land  and  made  slaves  of  their  warriors,  who 
must  then  do  women's  work,  for  the  white  man  said 
so.  The  thunder  was  very  angry  with  them  that  they 
should  so  disgrace  the  once  free  and  brave  hunters  and 
warriors  of  the  Dakota  people  by  consenting  to  be- 
come like  women  and  labor  with  their  hands.  If  they 
did  not  drive  out  the  white  man,  the  Great  Spirit  would 
strike  down  their  fairest  daughters  and  their  bravest 
sons.  Before  entering  upon  this  war  trail,  he  had 
sought  out  Yellow  Owl,  and  this  great  prophet  had  told 
him  that  he  had  communed  with  the  Wakinyan,*  and 
that  the  Wakinyan  had  told  him  to  drive  out  the  in- 
vaders or  a  pestilence  would  creep  into  the  lodges  of 
his  people  and  make  them  houses  of  mourning,  and  the 
buffalo  would  drop  dead  and  waste  away  so  that 
famine  would  make  their  bellies  yawn  with  emptiness. 
Yellow  Owl  had  likewise  told  him  that  the  thunder  would 
speak  this  very  night  and  tell  him,  Mad  Wolf,  what  to 
do.  The  thunder  had  spoken. 

*The  Dakotas'  chief  war  gods  whose  voice  was  the  thunder. 
[37] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIIi 

He  glided  forward  with  a  peculiar  snarl ;  and  then, 
hour  after  hour,  to  the  dreary  monotony  of  the  tom- 
tom, the  Indians  danced  their  war  dance.  Hugh  Hunt 
still  contended,  however,  that  this  was  not  a  war  party. 

"  Patience ! "  he  said  to  the  trembling  women,  who 
listened  terror-stricken  to  the  hideous  noise.  "  The 
night  is  already  far  spent.  We  are  warm  and  dry. 
That  is  much  to  be  thankful  for.  Their  orgie  will  not 
outlast  the  night." 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  he  restrained 
Locke  Raynor  from  slipping  out  of  the  tent  and  seek- 
ing an  interview  with  someone  in  authority.  For  to 
the  Eastern  man,  it  seemed  as  if  all  that  hysterical  out- 
cry must  lead  to,  if  indeed  it  was  not  a  deliberate 
preparation  for,  some  sacrifice  of  fanaticism  to  appease 
an  outraged  deity  of  the  thunder.  On  that  altar, 
human  sacrifice  had  been  done  in  the  barbarous  past. 
Who  could  say  for  a  surety  that  it  would  not  be  done 
again?  It  was  only  after  the  priest  had  interpreted  to 
him  Running  Bird's  friendly  warning  of  the  earlier 
night,  that  he  finally  consented  to  wait  for  the  day  be- 
fore issuing  forth  from  the  kindly  shelter  of  the  Chief's 
hospitality. 

Mingling  with  all  the  other  furious  rackets,  the  wind- 
lashed  river  roared  all  night  long,  even  after  the  rain 
ceased  and  the  roll  of  the  thunder  became  first  a  distant 
growl  and  at  last  died  away  altogether;  and  morning 
found  its  heaving  surface  flecked  with  masses  of  muddy, 
beaten  foam,  all  journeying  to  the  south. 

In  the  wet,  haggard,  first  light,  when  it  was  strangely 
[58] 


THE        STORM 

still  in  the  other  tipi,  where  the  bucks  had  at  last  sunk 
to  the  ground  in  sheer  exhaustion,  Katharine  peering 
out  could  distinguish  the  form  of  Running  Bird  pacing 
thoughtfully  up  and  down  between  the  two  tipis. 
Wonderfully  comforted,  she  fell  asleep.  When  she 
awoke,  she  found  her  mother  asleep,  at  last  worn  out  by 
the  strain  of  her  fears.  Locke  Raynor  also  slept,  his 
strong  young  face  resting  on  his  arm.  He  looked 
strangely  boyish  and  untroubled  in  his  slumber,  despite 
the  rifle  lying  close  to  his  side.  The  Missionary  was 
gone.  Creeping  to  the  opening,  she  again  looked  out. 
The  sun  was  just  rising.  The  morning  was  wet  and 
sweet  and  cool  after  the  storm.  Someone  was  trying 
to  make  a  fire  with  damp  wood.  It  smoked  distressingly 
but  struggled  gallantly  to  keep  alive.  Running  Bird 
came  and  stood  over  it  feeding  it  carefully.  Another 
stalwart  Indian  leaned  near  by  against  a  tree.  He,  too, 
this  morning,  was  cleansed  of  his  paint.  He  was 
speaking  but  he  spoke  in  a  strange  tongue  so  that  she 
comprehended  nothing.  His  face  was  inscrutable. 

"  He  struck  Mad  Wolf,"  this  man  was  saying  to  his 
chief,  "  and  then  he  laughed  out  of  his  lazy  eyes.  Mad 
Wolf  does  not  forget.  Last  night  Wakinyan  spoke  to 
me  in  the  loud  thunder  and  then  I  dreamed.  I  dreamed 
that  the  white  warriors  followed  the  white  War  Chief 
into  the  Hills.  And  then  came  this  proud  one  —  my 
enemy.  I  dreamed  of  gold  —  much  gold.  It  came  in 
yellow  streams  from  the  inner  earth.  At  first  the  spirits 
were  very  angry  because  we  had  let  the  white  man  in. 
But  I,  too,  went  in,  and  I  killed  my  enemy  so  that  the 

[59] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

spirits  were  not  angry  any  more.  They  helped  the 
Dakotas  to  kill  all  their  enemies.  After  a  while,  a 
beautiful  young  woman  floated  down  from  a  cloud  and 
sat  upon  the  highest  peak  of  all.  Where  she  put  her 
right  hand,  the  gold  that  the  white  man  loves  poured 
forth.  Where  she  put  her  left  hand,  deer  leaped  to  their 
feet  so  that  there  was  never  a  famine  but  always  fat 
hunting.  This  was  because  the  Great  Spirit  was  pleased 
with  his  children  because  they  did  not  tamely  submit  to 
be  driven  any  more." 

Katharine  thought  the  speech  troubled  the  Chief. 
His  eyes  had  grown  very  sombre  and  he  looked  all  at 
once  like  an  old  man,  though  the  priest  had  said  he  was 
younger  than  he,  and  the  priest  was  in  his  prime. 

Their  sobered  hosts  were  reluctant  to  let  the  white 
guests  go.  They  pressed  them  to  eat  more  of  the 
breakfast  they  had  prepared.  It  was  an  excellent  one. 
They  made  of  it  a  feast  to  honor  the  Agent's  wife  and 
daughter.  Some  one  had  been  out  on  the  prairie  early 
and  returned  with  a  plump  grouse  as  an  appetizing  evi- 
dence of  his  hunting  prowess.  When  at  last  Hugh 
Hunt  insisted  that  the  time  for  parting  had  come,  and 
turned  his  face  resolutely  toward  the  trail,  which  had 
been  lost,  the  Indians  leaped  to  their  own  ponies  and 
formed  a  close  escort  thither.  They  even  followed  for 
some  distance  after  the  original  trail  had  been  re- 
covered. Such  strict  espionage  might  have  become 
burdensome,  but  just  as  Hugh  Hunt  was  beginning  to 
hope  that  the  band  had  decided  to  return  to  the  Agency 
with  him,  and  Locke  Raynor  had  settled  down  into  a 

[60] 


THE        STORM 

humorous  acceptance  of  the  situation,  the  insistent 
escort  wheeled,  and,  with  no  word  of  farewell  and 
seemingly  without  preconcerted  plan  or  present  signal, 
began  racing  back  to  camp.  Running  Bird  alone  halted 
for  a  last  word.  He  received  the  Missionary's  benedic- 
tion in  silence;  but  a  lighting  of  his  sombre  eyes  was  a 
suggestion  that  his  unresponsiveness  might  be  only  an 
assumed  stoicism. 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again,  Running  Bird?  "  asked 
the  Missionary. 

"  In  twelve  sleeps,"  answered  the  Indian,  imperturb- 
ably. 

"  Good-bye,  Running  Bird,"  said  Katharine,  obeying 
a  sudden  impulse,  and  extending  her  hand  to  the  Indian. 
"  You  have  been  very  good  to  us.  We  shall  not  forget 
it.  I  —  shall  never  be  afraid  of  you  again." 

It  was  a  childish  speech  and  she  laughed  at  herself  in 
saying  it;  but  Hugh  Hunt  glanced  at  her  approvingly 
and  smiled,  well  pleased.  There  was  a  glint  of  amuse- 
ment in  the  Chief's  eyes  but  he  only  said: 

"  Good-bye,  Sunny-haired  One,"  and  rode  away. 

Turning  presently  to  see  if  he  had  disappeared,  Hugh 
Hunt  saw  that  he  had  ridden  but  a  trifling  distance  and 
stopped,  and  was  now,  erect  and  motionless  on  his  still 
pony,  gazing  long  and  earnestly  after  the  white  party 
moving  rapidly  into  the  north. 


[61] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    END    OF    THE    JOUB.NET 

£  4  A  ND  so  that  outfit  of  unlicensed  traders  is  still 
j  \  on  the  Reservation,"  said  the  Missionary, 
thoughtfully,  when  a  dip  in  the  road  at  last  lost  the 
Indian  to  view.  "  It  is  very  strange.  They  left,  or 
at  least  made  pretence  of  leaving,  by  order  of  Major 
Mendenhall,  before  I  went  to  meet  the  Indians'  Apostle. 
I  told  my  Bishop  that  they  were  gone.  He  was  very 
glad.  And  now  they  are  not  gone."  His  face  clouded. 

"  Do  not  be  disheartened,"  said  Katharine,  softly. 
**  They  must  go,  must  they  not,  if  my  father  says  so  ?  " 

"  Your  father  has  said  —  and  yet  they  are  not  gone," 
vouchsafed  Locke  Ray  nor,  carelessly. 

"  They  have  doubtless  slipped  back  without  my 
father's  knowledge,"  said  Katharine,  with  a  simple 
dignity  that  became  her  well,  with  its  faintly  implied 
rebuke  to  a  hint  of  criticism  contained  in  the  young 
fellow's  carelessly  spoken  words.  "  I  shall  inform  him 
of  their  presence  immediately  upon  our  arrival  at  the 
Agency.  Mr.  Hunt,  why  did  Running  Bird  call  you 
The  Slender  Ash?" 

"  That  is  the  name  the  Indians  have  given  me  be- 
cause I  am  straight  and  slim.  They  usually  name  people 

[62] 


THE    END    OF    THE    JOURNEY 

from  some  personal  peculiarity.  For  instance,  they  call 
your  father,  Big  Neck,  and  you  remember  Running  Bird 
called  you  Sun-in-the-hair." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think  we  shall  never  arrive," 
said  Mrs.  Mendenhall,  plaintively.  "  What  with  Indians 
and  storms  and  bandits  and  —  and  —  mud,"  as  her 
horse  slipped  down  a  gumbo  incline,  "  nothing  but  a 
miracle  can  land  us  there  in  safety.  However,  I  am 
resigned.  I  said  I  should  not  complain,  and  I  shall  not. 
But  I  wish  — " 

"  That  the  days  of  miracles  were  not  ended?  "  inter- 
rupted Katharine,  smilingly. 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  be  convinced,"  she  said,  glancing 
nervously  over  her  shoulder,  "  that  that  spitfire  savage 
was  not  following  us.  Do  you  suppose  now  that  he 
has  made  a  detour  and  is  waiting  for  us  behind  that  rise 
in  front?  He  could  do  it.  They  are  such  reckless 
riders  —  those  savages." 

"  Have  I  not  told  you,"  said  Hugh  Hunt,  patiently, 
"  that  Running  Bird  is  a  good  Indian  ?  Did  you  not 
notice  that  he  —  almost  alone  —  was  altogether  free 
from  the  abominable  fire-water?  And  if  he  were  not 
friendly  to  us  would  he  have  told  of  the  presence  of  the 
whiskey  smugglers  ?  " 

"  Has  there  been  much  of  it  —  this  illicit  sale  of 
whiskey  ?  "  asked  Locke  Raynor,  with  an  indifference 
which  might  have  been  assumed. 

"  Enough  to  make  it  secondary  only  to  Yellow  Owl 
and  his  priesthood  of  sorcerers  and  magic-mongers  as 
a  deadening  influence  against  Christian  civilization." 

[63] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"Yellow  Owl  —  who  is  Yellow  Owl?"'  asked  Locke, 
curiously. 

"  Yellow  Owl  ?  Outwardly,  he  is  a  medicine  man  of 
the  Dakotas.  Inwardly,  he  is  the  devil  incarnate,"  said 
the  young  priest,  deliberately. 

"  And  who  are  these  smugglers  who  have  squatted 
on  the  Reservation  with  no  right  but  their  own  in- 
solent will,  and  who  sell  liquor  to  the  wards  of  the 
United  States  Government  in  flagrant  defiance  of  its 
laws?  You  will  forgive  my  inquisitiveness.  Since  I 
am  to  reside  among  the  Indians,  I  am  naturally  interested 
in  what  concerns  them." 

"  They  are  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  civilization  and, 
cast  adrift,  they  float  shoreward  and  pollute  those  who 
grasp  after  them." 

"  But  if  they  are  flotsam  and  jetsam,"  said  Locke, 
quaintly,  "  they  are  confiscate  to  the  king.  Therefore 
• —  out  they  go.  Do  you  know  them  by  name?  " 

"  There  are  several  of  them.  They  go  by  the  name 
of  the  Dorsey  gang." 

The  coolness  attendant  upon  the  passing  of  the  storm 
more  than  compensated  for  the  heavier  roads,  and  the 
wayfarers  entered  upon  the  home  stretch  with  a  fine 
vigor  and  a  perceptible  uplift  of  spirit.  The  un- 
obstructed sun  of  several  days  had  done  its  work  well 
and  had  stored  away  so  many  of  its  pigments  in  Kath- 
arine's usually  almost  transparent  skin  that  her  face 
had  taken  on  a  dusky  olive  tint,  with  here  and  there  a 
piquant  freckle.  Much  of  the  discontent  that  had  at 
first  clouded  the  frank  charm  of  it  had  given  right  of 

[64] 


THE    END    OF    THE    JOURNEY 

way  to  the  irresistible  lure  of  the  winy  air  and  the 
appeal  of  the  sighted  end  of  a  long  journey.  She 
was  so  constitutionally  strong  that  she  could  forget 
the  fatigue,  and  the  fear  of  the  road  left  behind,  in 
rallying  her  forces  for  the  triumphant  finish.  Forget- 
fulness  made  her  strangely  beautiful.  Her  eyes  were 
brilliant  with  the  joy  of  life  and  health  and  youth. 
The  cool  wind  blowing  off  a  spent  cloud-bank  on  the 
northern  hills  ruffled  her  hair  and  individualized  gleam- 
ing strands  of  gold.  She  led  the  way,  setting  a  new 
pace  at  a  brisk  canter  on  the  high  grassy  trail,  with 
the  Missionary  maintaining  the  place  by  her  side. 
The  way  had  opened  so  that  the  boundaries  of  the  level 
trail  were  only  as  one  cared  to  limit  them.  Riding  be- 
hind with  the  Agent's  wife,  Locke  Raynor  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  joyous  figure  in  front  of  him  while  sustaining 
his  share  of  the  polite  but  desultory  conversation  with 
his  companion.  He  was  a  well-knit  young  fellow,  his 
athletic  bearing  and  perfectly  controlled  movements 
showing  the  training  of  University  gridiron  and  boat- 
ing crew  rather  than  that  of  labor  or  of  one  born  to 
the  out-of-doors.  He  was  rather  slightly  built  but 
not  spare  like  Hugh  Hunt.  His  muscular  development 
saved  him  from  being  thin.  He  owed  that  to  the 
American  institution  —  that  as  well  as  his  rugged 
patriotism,  his  republican  ideals,  and  his  sane  scholar- 
ship. But  an  elusive  Old  World  charm  that  sometimes 
showed  itself  in  speech  or  manner,  perhaps  he  owed  to 
Heidelburg.  He  had  a  smooth,  good-looking,  well- 
bred  face  with  clear,  innocent-looking  gray  eyes,  just 
6  [65] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

a  trifle  introspective,  perhaps,  and  reserved.  He  wore 
a  white  felt  hat  pushed  back  from  his  forehead  so  that 
there  was  no  concealment  whatsoever  in  his  contempla- 
tive perusal  of  Katharine's  graceful  poise  and  her  shining 
hair.  With  him  there  was  a  haunting  remembrance  of 
that  first  night  when  she  arose  out  of  shadow  and  came 
to  him  in  the  light  of  the  glowing  drift  log  because  the 
melancholy  howl  of  the  wolves  made  her  homesick. 
Would  the  wilderness  be  kind  to  such  as  she? 

Near  American  Creek  crossing,  they  halted  at  a  dingy 
and  unpromising-looking  road-house  for  rest  and  pos- 
sible refreshment.  Its  forlorn  exterior  did  not  belie  the 
comfort  within,  for  there  was  no  comfort  within.  The 
room  was  close  and  hot  and  drearily  bare.  The  man 
who  ushered  them  into  it  was  slow  of  movement  and 
unkempt  as  to  appearance.  He  proceeded  leisurely  to 
make  himself  comfortable  in  a  chair  tipped  against 
the  wall.  Plainly,  the  prospects  for  dinner  were  not 
cheering. 

"Can  you  get  us  something  to  eat?"  asked  Locke, 
observing  with  some  surprise  that  the  Missionary  did 
not  seem  disposed  to  assume  the  initiative. 

"  I  reckon  Pete  kin  stir  ye  up  somethin'  when  he 
comes  in.  He  's  boss  of  the  grub  just  now.  He  '11  be 
in  in  a  minute." 

"  We  have  so  little  time  to  waste  —  don't  you  sup- 
pose now  that  you  might  urge  Pete  to  hasten  some?  " 
asked  Locke,  persuasively.  "  We  shall  not  be  par- 
ticular —  a  little  tea  for  the  gentlewomen,  perhaps,  and 
then  if  Mrs.  Mendenhall  might  lie  down  for  an  hour  — " 

[66] 


THE    END    OF    THE    JOURNEY 

"  You  '11  have  to  see  Pete,"  said  the  man,  stubbornly. 

"  And  who  is  Pete?     Where  shall  I  find  Pete?  " 

"  Oh,  Pete  9a  just  Pete,"  responded  the  man,  glancing 
casually  at  the  Missionary  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  thought  you  had  left  the  Reservation,"  said  the 
Missionary,  suddenly. 

"  It  is  you  who  are  delaying  me,"  said  the  man,  a 
little  gruffly. 

A  wave  of  light  broke  in  upon  Locke  Raynor's  un- 
derstanding. He  suddenly  became  very  still  —  wait- 
ing. 

"  If  you  are  really  leaving  once  and  for  all,  where 
are  your  goods  and  where  is  your  accursed  brew?" 
asked  the  Missionary. 

"  Now  see  here,  Mr.  Hunt,"  expostulated  the  man, 
good-naturedly,  "  ain't  you  showin'  an  undue  curiosity 
as  to  my  personal  affairs?  I  leave  it  to  you,  fair  and 
square  —  now  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  You  received  Major  Mendenhall's  ultimatum,  did 
you  not?  "  asked  Hugh,  patiently.  "  Why,  then,  don't 
you  go?  You  promised  that  you  would  go." 

At  that  moment,  a  second  man  sauntered  into  the 
room  and  stood  slouchingly  near  the  door. 

"  So  we  will  go  —  when  the  spirit  moves  us,"  he  spoke 
up,  impudently.  He  was  much  younger  than  the  first 
man  and  might  have  been  his  son.  He  had  the  same 
shock  of  sun-burned,  ragged-looking  hair,  the  same  pale, 
•narrow  eyes.  "  You  Bible  men  make  me  tired,  any- 
way," he  went  on,  rapidly.  "  You  bring  a  new  creed 
to  the  Injuns.  Do  they  want  it?  Not  they.  They 

[67] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

have  n't  the  least  use  for  it.  They  are  better  off  with- 
out it.  They  fight  it  tooth  and  nail.  It  keeps  things 
stirred  up  all  the  time.  They  hate  it  worse  'n  poison. 
They  do  murder  because  of  it.  But  do  we  say  to  you, 
Git  out?  Not  we.  That 's  your  business.  If  you 
want  to  sell  your  goods  for  that  price,  why,  it  5s  up 
to  you.  It 's  not  our  affair.  Here  are  we  —  free 
citizens  of  the  United  States  —  come  to  trade  with  the 
Injuns.  We  were  here  long  before  you  were.  Do  they 
want  our  trade?  Ask  them.  What  right  has  Uncle 
Sam  to  come  between  us  and  our  legitimate  business? 
He  says  we  ain't  licensed  traders.  Ugh !  We  've  been 
out  here  makin'  friends  and  barterin'  with  the  Injuns 
since  long  before  ever  he  dared  to  send  a  representative 
among  'em  unless  accompanied  by  whole  regiments 
of  soldiers.  I  reckon  that 's  license  enough  for  me. 
Now  then,  if  we  leave  you  alone,  why  can't  you  leave 
us  alone,  Mr.  Preacher-man?  Specially  since  the  In- 
juns want  us  and  don't  want  you?  Isn't  this  their 
land?  Did  n't  Uncle  Sam  give  it  to  them  plunk  out?  " 
"  You  know  only  too  well  why  you  can  never  be 
licensed  traders,"  responded  the  priest,  sternly.  "  You 
make  pretence  of  dealing  in  harmless  commodities  — 
beads  and  the  like  —  and  lead  the  Government  a  merry 
chase  trying  to  run  down  your  unauthorized  traffic, 
while  you  know  and  I  know  that  it  is  all  a  game  to 
hide  your  iniquitous  fire-water  exchange.  You  have  not 
permission  to  be  one  day  on  this  Reservation.  It  will  be 
well  for  you  to  leave  before  Major  Mendenhall  learns 
of  your  delinquency." 

[68] 


THE    END    OF    THE    JOURNEY 

"  Who  is  there  to  make  us  go  ?  "  asked  the  trader, 
insolently. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  the  Missionary,  quietly,  lifting  his 
great  heavy  eyes  to  his  interlocutor's  face. 

The  two  men  burst  into  boisterous  laughter. 

"  We  can  well  understand  that,"  cried  the  insolent 
one.  "  We  can  well  understand  that  the  Ma j  or  will 
have  no  more  backbone  than  to  send  a  preacher  to 
persuade  us  for  God's  sake  to  go  away.  Well,  we  '11 
treat  you  fine  when  you  come  to  see  us,  friend.  We  may 
have  our  faults,  but  we  won't  hurt  you.  I  know  you 
well  enough  to  prophesy  that  you  will  come  slipping  in 
without  so  much  as  a  jack-knife  about  you  for  an 
emergency.  But  I  'm  not  an  Injun,  so  you  will  be  as 
safe  in  my  dugout  as  in  your  own  meetin'  house.  My 
pride  wouldn't  let  me  hurt  an  unarmed  man,  even  if 
he  does  sass  me  in  my  own  home.  Au  revoir,  then,  till 
you  are  sent  out  on  police  duty.  Or  are  you  waiting 
for  something  to  eat?  " 

"  I  am  already  sent,"  said  Hugh,  calmly.  "  If  not 
to-day,  then  to-morrow  —  make  ready." 

"  Who  sent  you?  "  asked  the  man,  curiously.  "  What 
authority  have  you  ?  " 

A  strange,  electric  thrill  passed  through  the  young 
priest  as  he  recalled  vividly  the  scene  in  the  gay,  care- 
less, little  capital  city  when,  kneeling  weary  and  over- 
borne for  the  Missionary  Bishop's  blessing,  that  high 
priest  had  told  him  how,  when  he  was  first  introduced  to 
a  military  officer  as  the  Missionary  Bishop  to  the  In- 
dians, the  officer  bluntly  remarked :  "  Indeed !  I  don't 

[69] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

envy  you  your  task."  His  eyes  burned  even  yet,  re- 
membering the  infinite  tenderness  with  which  the  Bishop 
raised  him  and  whispered,  his  fine  scholarly  face  even 
then  pinched  with  the  malady  that  was  to  make  all  his 
after  saintly  life  one  great  shining  sacrifice,  "  But 
I  —  I  so  envied  you  your  task,  Hugh  Hunt,  that  I 
have  come  to  share  it.  It  is  you  who  have  borne  the 
burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  but  I  have  come  to  help 
you  through  the  long  afternoon  of  it  —  and  you  will 
not  grudge  me  my  penny,  Hugh  Hunt.  God's  peace 
be  with  you  forever  and  ever." 

It  was  then  that  Hugh  Hunt  forgot  that  he  had  ever 
been  tired  or  overborne.  With  that  benign  influence  still 
strong  upon  him,  he  answered  simply : 

"  I  am  from  the  Apostle  to  the  Indians  —  him  whom 
my  people  call  the  White  Robe." 

"  Oh,  well,"  interrupted  the  first  man,  conciliatingly, 
"  who  said  anything  about  sellin'  liquor,  anyway?  This 
here  little  fun  has  gone  far  enough.  There  's  a  deal  o' 
difference  between  sellin'  whiskey  to  Injuns  agin  the 
Government's  say-so  and  keepin'  a  road-house  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  Government's  mail  carriers  and 
travellin'  public.  When  the  Major  said  to  git,  there 
was  nothin'  for  it  but  to  git,  though  we  don't  acknowl- 
edge there 's  anything  to  git  for.  He  said  we  sold 
fire-water  to  the  Injuns.  How  does  he  know?  He  's 
prejudiced  agin  us  and  feels  a  little  high  and  mighty, 
too,  'cause  I  'm  a  squaw-man,  I  reckon.  But  we  got. 
And  here  you  find  us  flippin'  flapjacks.  We  're  runnm' 
this  stage-house  now.  We  was  just  coddin'  you,  Mr. 

[70] 


THE    END    OF    THE    JOURNEY 

Hunt.  You  know  me.  I  ain't  got  much  faith  in  your 
cloth  and  that 's  what  made  me  and  Pete  tired  when  you 
went  to  preachin'  to  us.  But  I  think  a  lot  o'  you  as  a 
man.  Shake  on  that." 

Hugh  Hunt  shook  hands  with  him  gravely.  There 
was  an  ingenuous  smile  on  the  grizzled  face  that  was  dis- 
arming, and  yet  the  Missionary  wished  with  all  his  heart 
that  the  quondam  liquor  smuggler  were  —  anywhere, 
just  so  the  Indian  country  should  know  him  no  more. 

"  Is  this  true  —  what  you  are  telling  me?  "  he  asked, 
earnestly. 

"  True  as  Gospel.  If  you  've  got  a  Bible  handy  I  '11 
swear  on  that.  That  ought  to  make  my  oath  strong 
enough  —  for  you." 

"When  did  you  sell  your  last  stuff?"  asked  Hugh, 
unexpectedly. 

The  man  eyed  him  narrowly  for  a  moment;  then  his 
face  relaxed  from  its  mask  of  quick  surly  suspicion  and 
became  cheerful  once  more. 

"  Day  before  yesterday,"  he  grinned,  serenely. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have  '  got '  far 
enough?  " 

The  voice  was  soft,  slow,  almost  drawling.  The  un- 
expected question  focussed  the  attention  of  all  upon  the 
undisturbed  face  of  Locke  Raynor.  He  acknowledged 
the  sudden  interest  with  a  deprecating  smile. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  and  who  do  you  think  you  are?  " 
demanded  the  new  proprietor  of  the  road-house  in  un- 
disguised astonishment.  He  had  given  but  slight  notice 
hitherto  to  the  rather  silent  member  of  the  party,  whose 

[71] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

slightly  bored  expression  had  gone  far  toward  engender- 
ing such  carelessness  on  his  part. 

"  I  slept  last  night  with  Indians  mad  drunk  with 
whiskey,"  said  Locke,  still  drawlingly.  "  And  I  have 
the  names  of  those  from  whom  that  whiskey  was  ob- 
tained, and  I  should  think  the  sooner  those  persons  left 
this  Reservation  the  better  it  would  be  for  them.  I 
seem  to  recognize  in  myself  the  symptoms  of  an  inten- 
tion to  back  this  priest  and  Major  Mendenhall  in  their 
laudable  stand  for  law  and  order  in  the  Indian  country. 
I  should  think  that  one  of  the  first  things  which  would 
have  to  go  would  be  whiskey.  Good-day  to  you.  We 
do  not  care  for  any  dinner  to-day,  I  believe,  and  we 
are  already  rested." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  fight  it  out  now  ?  "  de- 
manded the  insolent  one,  with  a  threatening  gesture. 

"  Oh,  no ! "  cried  Katharine,  involuntarily. 

"  Assuredly  not,"  said  Locke,  composedly.  "  I  work 
for  Major  Mendenhall  at  the  Agency,  if  you  should 
desire  to  come  to  see  me  later.  But  you  need  not  trouble 
yourself.  I  shall  do  myself  the  honor  of  calling  upon 
you  soon.  What  a  pity,  now,  if  you  should  be  already 
gone  and  a  c  To  let '  card  up  —  but  what  a  vast  amount 
of  trouble  it  would  save,  to  be  sure.  Again,  good-day." 

They  saw  no  one  else  that  day.  Late  in  the  afternoon, 
they  forded  a  deep,  turbulent  creek  and  entered  a  small 
forest  of  huge,  river-grown  trees.  After  the  scorch  of 
the  already  searing  upper  trail,  the  restful  gloom  was 
•exceedingly  grateful  to  the  tired  travellers.  Still  a  little 
later,  emerging  therefrom,  they  beheld  the  forbidding 

[72] 


THE    END    OF    THE    JOURNEY 

stockade  walls  of  the  fortified  Agency.  There  had  been 
no  runner  to  apprise  the  Ma j  or  of  their  approach.  The 
gates  were  closed.  A  deep,  serene  stillness  brooded  over 
all  the  evening  landscape. 

?      "  We  have  come  home,  mother,"  said  Katharine,  a 
little  sob  in  her  throat. 


[73] 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  THE  LITTLE  OX  LIES  STRUGGLING  ON  THE  EARTH  " 

THE  mother  of  Wa-hca-ska  —  which  interpreted 
signifies  White  Flower  —  crouched  by  the  side  of 
the  pallet  of  buffalo  skins  whereon  lay  this  maid  of  the 
Dakotas.  Her  body  rocked  to  and  fro  in  monotonous 
repetition,  while  she  moaned,  "  Wa-hca-ska !  "  and  again, 
"  Wa-hca-ska ! "  But  the  White  Flower  was  deaf  ta 
her  lament.  Stricken  with  a  fever,  she  could  only  toss 
her  restless  head,  with  its  matted  strings  of  black  hair,. 
back  and  forth  upon  the  rude  couch. 

For  the  moment,  the  squaw  mother  was  alone  with  her 
sick.  Chief  Black  Tomahawk  had  himself  gone  to  the 
extreme  confines  of  the  camp  —  now  almost  a  deserted 
village  since  Summer  had  scattered  these  nomads  for 
the  hunting  —  personally  and  humbly  to  solicit  the  pro- 
fessional services  of  Yellow  Owl,  after  the  messengers 
sent  by  the  chief  had  returned  with  the  report  that  the 
great  doctor  had  given  no  heed  to  their  supplications 
but  seemed  to  be  in  a  trance,  having  apparently  eaten 
nothing  for  days  nor  walked  out  among  the  people.. 
No  less  wakan  power  than  that  of  Yellow  Owl  himself, 
the  greatest  medicine  man  of  his  time,  perhaps,  barring 
the  crafty,  low-caste  Sitting  Bull,  could  avail  Black 


THE         LITTLE         OX! 

Tomahawk's  daughter  now,  Wa-hca-ska,  his  little  White 
Flower,  heart  of  his  heart  and  pride  of  his  heart.  His 
sons  were  dead.  Nothing  was  left  to  this  proud,  failing* 
chief  of  a  proud,  failing  people,  but  memories  and 
Wa-hca-ska.  He  could  not  even  dream  as  his  sons  had 
dreamed  before  they  were  called  away  from  their 
brief  span  of  life;  for  he  was  a  wise  old  man,  and  he 
knew  that  his  day  was  done.  If  these  sons  had  lived, 
perhaps  —  so  many  things  are  possible  when  the  eye  is 
bright,  the  step  quick,  faith  high,  and  the  passion 
for  perfect  liberty  preeminent.  But,  no  —  they  were 
dreamers  —  all  those  young  men  gathering  in  secret  to 
resent  the  white  man's  invasion  were  dreamers  like  his 
sons  who  were  dead.  Running  Bird,  the  son  of  Chief 
Little  Thunder  of  that  Brule  band  who  were  friendly 
once  to  the  usurpers,  was  a  dreamer.  He  had 
been  a  dreamer  since  Ash  Hollow.  Wa-hca-ska  was 
a  dreamer  when  she  so  passionately  rebelled  against 
the  white  man's  teaching  at  the  mission  boarding-school 
that  had  been  stealing  away  the  hearts  of  so  many  In- 
dian children  since  the  pale  young  man  had  come  to  the 
Agency  out  of  the  East  —  from  farther  away,  Black 
Tomahawk  had  been  told,  than  lived  the  great  White 
Father  at  Washington.  Such  a  dreamer  was  Wa-hca- 
ska  that  no  persuasion  on  the  part  of  the  Missionary 
or  of  the  Agent,  whom  the  people  called  Tahu  Tanka 
(Big  Neck)  could  induce  her  to  alter  her  fixed  determi- 
nation never  to  go  back.  In  his  heart,  Black  Toma- 
hawk was  glad  that  Wa-hca-ska  was  a  dreamer.  He 
himself  listened  no  more  to  the  voices  of  the  visionaries, 

[75] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

crying  war  —  war  —  war  all  day  long,  at  feast  and  at 
funeral,  only  because,  being  a  wise  old  man  and  a  truer 
prophet,  perhaps,  than  many  who  laid  claim  to  the 
secrets  of  the  mysteries,  he  saw  the  shadow  of  the  end, 
and,  seeing,  wrapped  his  blanket  about  his  still  stately 
form  and  retired  to  the  sanctuary  of  his  own  fireside. 
There  he  kept  patient  guard  over  his  dignity  and  his 
broken  heart,  and  there  his  seamed,  sombre,  yet  kindly 
face  lighted  up  only  when  his  little  White  Flower's  ir- 
resistible and  laughing  ways  constrained  him.  Yes, 
Black  Tomahawk's  heart  was  with  the  dreamers,  but  his 
fatalistic  mind  could  not  but  see  the  bleeding  futility 
of  such  dreams.  The  Dakotas  had  dispossessed  the 
Rees.  The  whites  would  dispossess  the  Dakotas.  It 
was  fate. 

But  Wa-hca-ska  must  not  die.  She  must  not  go 
before  him.  She  was  the  last.  If  he  gave  Yellow  Owl 
the  pick  of  his  horse  herd,  perhaps  he  would  come  — 
even  if  he  must  leave  his  communing  with  gods  —  for 
this  wakan-man  loved  good  horses.  None  knew  this 
better  than  Black  Tomahawk  knew  it.  Yet,  if  ever 
knowledge  of  the  necromancer's  cupidity  caused  him  to 
doubt  the  seer's  good  faith,  he  never  wavered  in  out- 
ward belief.  If  ever  his  own  natural  acumen,  strength- 
ened by  a  long  life  of  wise  and  temperate  living,  and 
quickened  by  unavoidable  contact  with  men  of  the  world, 
the  white  man's  world,  made  him  doubt  the  pretender's 
power,  he  strangled  the  doubt  in  its  inception  —  for  his 
pride's  sake  and  for  his  people's  sake.  And  now  that 
his  White  Flower  had  sickened,  he  yearned  with  the 


''THE         LITTLE         OX' 

peculiar  yearning  of  his  race  for  the  comforting  pres- 
ence of  one  of  his  own  kind. 

"  Wa-hca-ska ! "  moaned  the  mother.  "  Wa-hca- 
<slta  f  55 

oJvd  • 

The  flap  of  the  tipi  of  scraped  buffalo  hides  was 
opened  and  two  other  squaws  came  in.  Like  the  mother, 
they  were  unkempt  with  protracted  watching.  One  of 
the  newcomers  was  so  old  that  her  hair  and  eyebrows 
were  perfectly  white,  giving  the  dark  wrinkled  face  a 
strange  removed  appearance.  She  glided  up  to  the 
pallet  with  a  steaming  bowl  in  her  hands. 

"  Wa-hca-ska !     Wa-hca-ska !  "  wailed  the  mother. 

"  Fool !  "  said  her  mother-in-law,  fiercely.  "  Lament 
when  the  child  is  dead.  Give  me  room.  Wa-hca-ska 
must  eat." 

"  Wa-hca-ska !  Wa-hca-ska !  "  cried  the  mother,  un- 
heeding, and  again,  "  Wa-hca-ska !  " 

The  grandmother  was  about  to  push  her  roughly 
away,  when  Black  Tomahawk  came  in.  His  offering 
had  proved  efficacious,  for  with  him  was  the  Indian  sor- 
cerer, Yellow  Owl.  After  the  two,  four  young  men 
came  gliding  in  and  noiselessly  took  station  as  far  re- 
moved from  the  sick  princess  as  the  conical  walls  per- 
mitted. 

At  first  Yellow  Owl's  motions  were  grave  and  delib- 
erate. He  wore  a  rapt,  almost  dazed,  expression,  as  if 
his  feet  were  not  yet  altogether  firmly  upon  the  earth 
again,  or  his  god-like  soul  back  to  his  body.  With  a 
gesture  that  the  women  understood  without  words,  he 
caused  the  couch  of  Wa-hca-ska  to  be  moved  to  the  cen- 

[77] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

tre  of  the  tent.  Suddenly  his  eyes  began  to  glitter.  He 
stripped  off  his  clothes  until  he  stood  naked  except  for 
the  nrddle  cloth.  His  lethargy  disappeared  as  if  in- 
deed by  magic.  A  wild  excitement  slipped  into  its  place 
so  quickly  that  the  transition  would  have  puzzled  any 
but  an  Indian  who  believed  that  the  medicine  man  was 
receiving  his  inspiration  from  Wakantanka. 

"  Wa-hca-ska !  Wa-hca-ska ! "  cried  the  mother, 
frantically,  but  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  her.  The 
old,  old  woman  fell  a-trembling  so  that  the  stew  in  the 
bowl  slopped  over  onto  the  floor,  but  neither  did  any 
one  pay  attention  to  her.  It  was  close  and  warm  in 
the  tent,  so  warm  that  the  medicine  man's  fine,  sinewy 
body  shone  with  the  moisture  of  his  effort. 

"Flying  god-like  I  encircle  the  heavens; 
I  enlighten  the  earth  to  its  centre. 
The  little  ox  lies  struggling  on  the  earth, 
I  lay  my  arrow  to  the  string." 

Over  and  over  he  chanted  the  weird  boast  of  the  god 
in  him  to  the  rattling  accompaniment  of  a  gourd  shell. 

"  The  little  ox  lies  struggling  on  the  earth,"  he 
chanted  in  the  Dakota  language. 

"  Wa-hca-ska !     Wa-hca-ska !  "   shrieked  the  mother. 

The  wakan-man  had  worked  himself  into  a  frenzy  of 
religious  ardor.  Hideous,  indescribable  noises  pro- 
ceeded from  his  throat.  Suddenly,  muttering  more  dis- 
tinctly these  words :  "  The  god  told  me  that  having 
this  I  might  approach  even  a  skeleton  and  set  it  on  its 
feet,"  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  put  his  mouth  to  the 

[78] 


•'THE         LITTLE         OX' 

girl's  throbbing  temples  and  sucked  with  a  marvellous 
^energy,  never  ceasing  the  violent  shaking  of  the  gourd. 
Humbler  physicians  had  long  since  administered  emetics 
under  the  erroneous  supposition  that  there  was  some  of- 
fending substance  in  the  girl's  stomach.  Not  so  would 
the  great  doctor  do.  He  despised  the  aid  of  herbs.  He 
would  rely  altogether  upon  the  favor  and  direction  of 
his  patron  gods. 

Chief  Black  Tomahawk  preserved  his  Indian  stoicism 
during  this  ceremony,  outwardly  at  least.  In  his  heart 
he  was  saying  that  if  Wa-hca-ska  lived,  Yellow  Owl 
should  have  two  ponies,  or  a  fine  buffalo  robe,  or  Wa- 
hca-ska  should  fashion  for  him  such  a  medicine  pouch 
as  never  was  before  —  a  gift  worthy  a  chief's  giving 
and  a  god's  accepting.  If  Wa-hca-ska  lived!  It  was 
at  that  moment  that  another  figure  darkened  the  door- 
way. No  one  paid  any  attention  to  him,  either.  He 
did  not  push  into  the  room  but  remained  near  the  en- 
trance, a  splendid  figure  of  a  man,  straight  as  an  arrow, 
broad  of  shoulder,  lean  of  hip,  with  a  handsome,  haughty 
countenance,  thin  lips,  a  prominent  nose,  his  black  hair 
dressed  with  but  a  single  feather.  Sometime,  somewhere, 
this  silent,  self-centred  man  had  killed  and  carried  away 
the  prize  of  the  killing  and,  reverting  to  the  traditions 
of  his  race,  claimed  and  cherished  with  a  savage  satis- 
faction the  right  to  wear  a  single  eagle's  feather. 

Finally,  Yellow  Owl  staggered  to  his  feet,  blinded  and 
dizzy  from  the  tremendous  exertion.  The  god  in  him 
had  pumped  out  the  disease  in  the  Chief's  White  Flower. 
But  it  was  not  yet  vanquished.  It  had  left  the  sufferer, 

[79] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

the  "  Little  struggling  ox,"  but  he  had  heroically  taken 
it  into  his  own  system  and  had  still  to  contend  with  it, 
and  not  only  to  relieve  himself  of  the  unwelcome  presence 
but  to  discover  and  annihilate  the  spirit  of  the  sin  which 
had  caused  Wa-hca-ska  to  be  so  grievously  afflicted. 
He  was  apparently  in  great  agony.  It  was  still  day 
and  his  groans  could  be  heard  a  half-mile  away,  where 
many,  hearing,  understood  that  the  great  wakan-mari 
was  wrestling  with  an  evil  spirit.  He  writhed,  struck 
his  sides,  beat  the  earth  with  his  feet,  always  holding  a 
basin  of  water  to  his  mouth  in  which  he  was  presumably 
depositing  that  which  had  been  drawn  from  the  sick 
girl.  This  part  of  the  performance  was  accompanied 
by  a  suggestive,  sing-song  bubbling. 

These  rites  continued  for  hours,  until  the  late  dusk  of 
the  Summer  night  crept  into  the  camp,  and  fires  began 
gleaming  fitfully  through  the  darkening  atmosphere. 
Occasionally,  the  doctor  rested;  never  for  long.  The 
ancient  grandmother  crept  out  and  kindled  the  fire.  It 
sprang  up  red.  Shadows  flickered  on  the  walls  of  the 
tipi.  Wa-hca-ska  had  fallen  asleep,  the  hideous  clamor 
failing  finally  to  penetrate  her  drowsy  senses.  The  men 
who  had  followed  Yellow  Owl  into  the  tipi  squatted, 
watchful,  on  the  outskirts.  Smoke  Woman,  the  mother, 
still  moaned,  but  at  longer  intervals.  Wa-hca-ska  had 
not  closed  her  eyes  for  three  sleeps.  Smoke  Woman 
saw  hope  in  this  slumber.  The  tall  Indian  by  the 
door  stood  as  straight,  as  uncompromisingly  taci- 
turn, as  when  he  first  came.  Others  had  come  and  gone, 
had  shifted  their  positions  —  he  had  scarcely  moved. 

[80] 


THE         LITTLE         OX! 

A  change  came  over  the  prophet.  He  was  approach- 
ing his  great  climax.  A  new  excitement  flashed  from  his 
eyes.  At  last  he  saw  the  spirit  of  that  sin  which  had  sick- 
ened Wa-hca-ska.  It  rushed  into  the  lodge,  laid  violent 
hold  of  the  sleeping  princess  as  if  to  rend  her  to  pieces. 
But  the  watchful  and  inspired  wakan-man  was  equal  to 
the  occasion.  This  was  what  he  had  been  striving  for. 
This  was  what  would  make  his  power  among  his  people 
more  than  ever  a  despotism.  This  was  what  would  bring 
such  wavering  ones  as  Running  Bird  back  from  the  lure 
of  that  White  Robe  who  sent  the  young  pale-face  to 
babble  a  pleasing  but  dangerous  myth  of  a  man  on  a 
cross  and  a  brotherhood  of  red  and  white.  This  was 
what  would  rivet  these  erring  ones  again  to  the  faith 
of  demonolatry.  For,  suddenly,  Wa-hca-ska's  sleep  had 
changed  from  a  heavy,  labored  stupor  to  a  natural,  easy 
rest.  Her  face  was  damp.  Yellow  Owl  saw  and  his 
cunning  knew  that  Running  Bird  saw,  too.  A  telling 
blow  he  was  striking  against  that  brotherhood  which 
meant  one  only  because  the  Indian  would  be  assimilated 
by  the  white  man.  If  only  all  could  see  that  the  perpe- 
tuity of  the  Indian  nations  rested  wholly  upon  their 
keeping  apart!  Several  days  ago,  an  elk  had  been 
sighted  near  the  village.  This  was  an  unusual  occur- 
rence because  deer  and  elk  had  been  so  long  hunted  by 
these  nomadic  tribes  that  they  avoided,  with  an  unerring 
instinct,  places  of  human  habitation.  The  incident,  al- 
most forgotten,  proved  to  be  Yellow  Owl's  opportunity. 
His  imagination  pictured  the  disease-monger,  before 
turning  to  run  away,  fixing  his  evil  eyes  upon  the  tiru 
6  [81] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

of  Chief  Black  Tomahawk.  That  meant  disaster  to 
some  of  its  inmates.  Taking  up  a  piece  of  wood,  he 
carved  therefrom  an  image  of  an  elk,  and  placed  it  in 
a  bowl  of  water,  close  to  the  wailing  squaws.  Then  he 
caused  the  four  men  who  had  followed  him,  to  shoot 
at  the  image,  one  after  another,  in  quick  succession, 
until  the  rude  carving  was  completely  demolished.  This 
was  the  cue  for  the  god  in  the  inspired  doctor  to  leap 
out  and  fall  upon,  not  the  wretched  image,  but  the  spirit 
of  the  animal  thus  represented.  The  jugglery  was 
crude,  but  to  the  superstitious  souls  of  the  Sioux  it  was 
ft  wonderful  manifestation  of  the  seer's  direct  com- 
munication with  the  realm  of  the  wakan. 

The  sounds  in  the  village  were  fast  dying  away. 
Here  and  there  a  dog  barked.  The  camp  fires  had  sunk 
to  smouldering  embers.  It  was  very  late.  Still  Wa- 
hca-ska  slumbered.  Running  Bird  stepped  forward. 
His  arms  were  folded  across  his  broad  chest.  A  fire  had 
been  laid  inside  for  light,  but  it,  too,  smouldered.  In  the 
half  light,  the  son  of  a  murdered  chief  stood,  a  perfect 
Indian.  All  that  he  had  unconsciously  absorbed  from 
association  with  men  like  Hugh  Hunt  was  as  if  it  had 
never  been. 

"  The  God  of  the  white  man  is  —  the  God  of  the 
white  man,"  he  said  slowly  and  distinctly.  "  He  is  not 
for  us.  Maybe  it  is  true  —  what  they  tell  about  Him. 
Our  stories  are  true,  too.  We  listen,  politely,  to  their 
tales  of  this  Man  on  the  Cross.  He  was  very  brave. 
He  did  not  cry  out  at  the  torture.  He  died  like  an 
Indian.  We  are  glad  to  believe  it  is  true.  But  they 

[82] 


''THE        UITTLE         OX' 

laugh  at  us  and  call  our  sacred  traditions  myths.  They 
mean  by  that  —  lies.  The  white  men  are  very  rude. 
Wa-hca-ska  will  live.  The  Great  Spirit  has  been  good 
to  Chief  Black  Tomahawk  and  to  Running  Bird,  his 
friend  on  the  other  side  of  the  big  river.  I  have  seen. 
I  am  very  thankful.  Therefore,  the  son  of  Little  Thun- 
der will  dance  in  the  great  dance  of  the  sun,  which  is  in 
four  sleeps.  In  the  morning,  I  return  to  my  reservation 
with  my  young  men." 

He  turned  abruptly,  lifted  the  flap,  and  passed  out 
into  the  night. 

In  the  early  dawn,  White  Flower  awoke,  sane  but  very 
weak.  The  fever  was  gone,  and  with  it  the  false 
strength  of  it.  She  smiled,  wanly,  at  her  mother  still 
crouched  at  the  bed-side.  The  ancient  one  slept.  So 
also  did  Black  Tomahawk.  Yellow  Owl  was  gone. 

"  My  mother,"  she  whispered,  affectionately.  "  All 
night  you  have  watched  by  me.  Now  you  must  sleep." 

"  Wa-hca-ska !  "  murmured  the  weary  squaw,  her  fat, 
usually  expressionless  face  alight  with  gratitude. 
"You  will  get  well.  You  will  stay  with  old  Smoke 
Woman.  Little  bird  —  little  dove  —  Wa-hca-ska! 
Wa-hca-ska ! " 

"  Sleep,  my  mother.  See,  I  sleep,  for  I  am  very 
tired."  She  closed  her  eyes  and  was  still. 

Satisfying  herself  that  the  breathing  was  natural, 
Smoke  Woman  allowed  her  exhausted  body  to  droop 
down  on  the  couch,  her  heavy  eyes  closed,  and  she  slept. 
But  White  Flower  was  not  asleep.  As  soon  as  her 
mother's  regular  and  deep  respirations  proved  that  she 

[83] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

at  last  rested,  White  Flower  opened  her  big  dark  beau- 
tiful eyes,  showing  the  bigger  and  the  darker  for  the 
emaciation  of  her  face.  She  looked  steadily  at  the  nod- 
ding head  of  her  grandmother  and  presently  the  aged 
woman  awoke. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  murmured  White  Flower,  softly. 

"  Heart  of  my  heart  must  eat,"  said  the  grandmother, 
rising  from  her  cramped  position. 

"  Sh  —  sh  —  sh  — ,"  warned  White  Flower. 

"  You  shall  eat.     Do  not  fear." 

"  Yes,  my  father's  mother,  if  you  say  I  shall  eat,  I 
shall  eat.  But  she  is  tired  —  so  tired.  Do  not  awaken 
her." 

"  The  yellow-haired  one  —  she  at  the  Agency  —  tells 
your  mother  strange  tales  of  not  eating  with  the  fever. 
Your  mother  is  a  foolish  woman.  I  heard.  I  did  not 
believe.  It  is  I  who  give  you  to  eat  when  you  are 
hungry  whether  she  wakes  or  not,"  grumbled  the  grand- 
mother, her  old  black  eyes  snapping  fire.  She  left  the 
tipi. 

An  hour  later  Smoke  Woman  once  more  was  on  her 
knees  wailing  the  old  heart-broken  cry,  "  Wa-hca-ska ! 
Wa-hca-ska!" 

At  noon,  the  long,  hot  noon  of  the  virgin  prairie,  a 
tired,  dusty,  haggard,  blanketed  Indian  woman  appeared 
at  the  Agency  and  asked  for  Sun-in-the-hair.  She 
spoke  not  a  word  of  English.  In  impatient  despair,  the 
new  and  homesick  serving  maid  motioned  her  off  and 
went  back  to  her  work  and  her  tears.  The  Indian 
turned  quietly  and  despondently  away.  As  she  trudged 

[84] 


''THE         LITTLE         OX' 

back  toward  the  gate,  something  familiar  in  the  pathetic 
figure  attracted  Katharine  Mendenhall  who  sat  by  a  win- 
dow idly  turning  the  pages  of  an  unread  book,  and 
wondering  how  she  could  live  through  the  long  lonesome 
afternoon  that  stretched  before  her.  She  left  the  house 
and  hastened  after  the  plodding  squaw,  remembering, 
with  a  repentant  pang,  the  sick  girl  whom  she  had  gone 
to  see  several  days  ago  at  the  solicitation  of  Hugh 
Hunt,  and  whom  she  had  promised  to  visit  again,  and 
whom  she  had  forgotten.  Smoke  Woman  at  first 
trudged  on  without  heeding  the  hand  upon  her  shoul- 
der, her  reception  at  the  Agency  still  rankling  in  her 
Indian  heart  and  chilling  the  impulse  that  had  brought 
her  many  miles  on  foot  through  the  dust  to  ask  aid  of 
the  child  of  Tahu  Tanka.  The  old  distrust  held  her 
mute,  though  Wa-hca-ska  was  again  in  the  clutches  of 
demoniacal  spirits,  and  this  time  they  bade  fair  to  worst 
the  medicine  man.  She  had  left  him  and  the  din  of  his 
strife  with  these  offended  spirits  when  she  realized  that 
the  gods  which  inspired  Yellow  Owl  were  powerless  be- 
cause superior  gods  had  ordered  that  Wa-hca-ska  must 
die.  There  was  no  one  in  the  Sioux  tribes  that  she 
knew  with  greater  wdkan  power  than  Yellow  Owl.  If 
he  failed,  there  was  no  hope  for  Wa-hca-ska.  Yet  so 
great  was  her  superstitious  fear  of  the  magician  that 
she  had  slipped  away  from  the  camp  in  secret,  not  daring 
even  to  take  a  horse.  If  Yellow  Owl  knew  that  she  was 
seeking  white  aid,  he  would  be  mortally  offended  and 
would  surely  avenge  the  insult  by  failing  to  exert  his 
wakan  power  in  behalf  of  Wa-hca-ska.  Nay,  he  would 

[85] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

go  farther  and  call  down  upon  herself,  Smoke  Woman, 
some  terrible  sickness  in  punishment  of  her  crime.  If 
he  knew !  But  Smoke  Woman  did  not  intend  that  he 
should  know.  There  was  no  hope  for  Wa-hca-ska  un- 
less the  white  man's  Wakantanka  had  inspired  the  white 
man's  medicine  writh  more  healing  properties  than  had 
the  Indians'  gods  deigned  to  bestow  upon  their  devotees. 
She  would  get  medicine  from  this  daughter  of  Tahu 
Tanka,  who  had  helped  Wa-hca-ska  before,  and  the 
doctor  would  never  know.  But  they  had  laughed  at  her 
at  the  Agency,  so  now  she  was  going  back  to  Wa-hca- 
ska,  her  little  White  Flower,  whom  she  had  left  too  long. 
Black  Tomahawk  and  the  rest  thought  that  her  grief 
had  sent  her  wandering  over  the  prairie  in  search  of  some 
new  curative  herb.  Would  Wa-hca-ska  be  gone  when 
she  got  back?  The  way  was  long.  The  sun  was  very 
hot.  She  must  not  falter  or  Wa-hca-ska  would  die,  and 
she  would  not  be  there  to  see  her  blessed  spirit  pass  out 
of  the  tipi. 

Katharine's  presence,  however,  was  compelling,  actu- 
ated as  she  was  by  honest  regret  at  her  thoughtlessness. 
Suddenly,  Smoke  Woman  broke  forth  into  lamentation 
and  explanation,  not  a  word  of  which  Katharine  could 
understand  but  the  oft-repeated,  "  Wa-hca-ska !  Wa- 
hca-ska!"  What  should  she  do?  Hugh  Hunt  had 
that  morning  gone  down  to  the  Lower  Camp  and  had 
not  yet  returned.  Her  father  had  ridden  out  somewhere 
on  the  Reservation.  The  new  issue  clerk,  Locke  Ray- 
nor,  was  temporarily  in  charge,  and  could  not  leave  the 
Agency.  Besides,  his  knowledge  of  the  Dakota  Ian- 

[86] 


THE         LITTLE         OX 

guage  was  as  embryonic  as  her  own.  Her  mother  was; 
asleep.  She  was  strangely  alone  in  this  crisis  which  had 
come  to  her  so  soon,  so  unasked,  and  so  undesired. 
But  out  there,  beyond  the  hills  which  sloped  to  the  quiet, 
stockaded  Agency,  with  miles  of  heat  and  dust  between, 
a  girl  was  dying,  a  beautiful  girl,  with  restless  eyes  and 
an  Indian  heart;  and  Hugh  Hunt  had  said  to  her  on 
that  never-to-be-forgotten  journey  up  the  river  that  her 
mission  was  to  the  Indian  women.  Now  this  girl  was 
dying  because  she,  Katharine  Mendenhall,  could  find 
nothing  to  do  to  keep  her  from  dreaming  dreams  of  a 
far  away  but  very  pleasant  past.  Right  bitterly  did 
she  regret  her  inability  to  measure  up  to  the  stature 
set  for  her.  Her  opportunity  had  come,  and  she  had 
not  recognized  it.  Memory  of  the  night  of  the  young 
priest's  appeal  —  nay,  his  command  —  came  back  to  her 
with  startling  distinctness  as  she  listened  in  desperation 
to  the  Indian  woman's  unintelligible  jargon,  punctu^ 
ated  every  now  and  then  with  that  pitiful  cry :  "  Wa- 
hca-ska !  Wa-hca-ska !  "  There  were  the  soft,  dark 
sky,  pierced  with  white,  mysterious  stars,  the  darker 
circle  of  trees,  the  smouldering  camp-fire,  and  the  awful 
quiet. 

In  despair,  she  turned  into  the  little  store  of  the  post 
trader,  dragging  the  unwilling  Smoke  Woman  after 
her. 

"  Tell  me  what  she  means,  Mr.  Newman !  "  she  cried, 
earnestly;  and  the  grave,  almost  taciturn  trader,  whom 
the  isolating  tendencies  of  that  greatest  of  internecine 
wars  had  sent  West  to  look  for  a  new  place  because  the 

[87] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

old  had  not  waited  for  him  during  those  four  best  years 
of  his  life,  given  so  unquestioningly  to  the  great  Repub- 
lic, paused  in  his  routine  to  interpret : 

"  Smoke  Woman  says  that  the  White  Flower  is  dying. 
She  says,  '  I  am  only  a  poor  Indian  woman.  Wakan- 
tanka  is  about  to  take  my  last  blossom  from  me.  I  im- 
plore the  daughter  of  Big  Neck  to  give  me  medicine  so 
that  Wa-hca-ska  may  live.  The  old  grandmother  gave 
Wa-hca-ska  to  eat  of  meat  when  I  was  asleep.  I  re- 
membered what  Sun-in-the-hair  had  said  but  the 
grandmother  is  Black  Tomahawk's  mother.  I  could  do 
nothing.  Give  me  the  medicine  of  the  white  man,  oh, 
Sun-in-the-hair,  and  let  the  poor  Indian  go  !  " 

"  I  will  go  back  to  the  house  for  some  fever  drops, 
Mr.  Newman,  and  will  you  please  tell  her  that  White 
Flower  simply  must  not  eat  anything.  Tell  her  that 
as  soon  as  my  father  returns,  or  Mr.  Hunt,  we  will  come 
to  her,  if  it  is  midnight.  That  will  make  no  difference. 
And  she  must  take  the  buckboard.  I  will  have  it  ready 
in  an  instant." 

This  new  thought  started  her  toward  the  door,  but  the 
calm  voice  of  the  trader  stayed  her. 

"  She  gives  thanks  for  the  medicine  and  the  other 
things,  Miss  Mendenhall.  She  says  she  is  very  grate- 
ful ;  but  she  refuses  your  kindly  offer  of  the  buckboard. 
She  insists  on  going  back  as  she  came." 

"  Oh,  but,  Mr.  Newman,  that  is  impossible.  Tho 
White  Flower  may  die  before  she  gets  there.  Tell  her 
she  must  ride." 

"  I  think  she  has  some  reason  that  we  do  not  under- 
[88]  ' 


''THE         LITTLE         OX' 

stand,  Miss  Mendenhall.  I  think  we  shall  have  to  let  her 
have  her  own  way,"  said  the  trader ;  and  Katharine  was 
forced  into  acceptance  of  the  Indian  woman's  obstinate 
determination  to  walk  back  over  the  long,  dusty  way. 
But  she  was  far  from  satisfied.  No  sooner  had  the  travel- 
stained  figure  trudged  out  of  sight  than  she  began  de- 
vising ways  and  means  of  herself  going  to  the  help  of 
the  pretty  Indian  girl,  whose  sands  of  life  she  feared 
were  fast  running  out.  If  there  were  some  one  upon 
whom  she  might  call!  If  only  her  father  or  Hugh 
Hunt  would  come  back!  If  only  Locke  Raynor  could 
be  spared !  He  was  but  a  hireling  clerk  and  unversed  in 
the  Sioux  tongue,  but  he  was  a  man,  every  inch  of  him. 
The  journey  here  had  proved  that  beyond  a  doubt,  and 
with  him  to  prop  up  her  scraps  of  courage,  she  surely 
could  make  White  Flower's  relatives  understand  what 
she  wanted  to  do  for  White  Flower.  But  he  could  not 
be  spared,  so  there  was  no  use  broaching  the  subject  to 
him.  There  was  no  way. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  Smoke  Woman  tramped  wearily 
and  doggedly  into  the  tipi.  No  one  paid  any  attention 
to  her  at  all  except  the  grandmother,  who  greeted  her 
with  an  angry  scowl.  The  tent  was  crowded  with  the 
girl's  relatives  and  friends.  The  din  was  horrible. 
Yellow  Owl  was  putting  forth  all  his  effort  to  overcome 
the  offended  spirits,  counting  much  on  the  impression 
he  was  giving  of  exceptional  wakan  power  and  zeal,  so 
that  if  the  wheel  of  life  and  death  did  turn  against  him, 
in  the  eyes  of  his  credulous  tribesmen,  not  his  the  blame, 
but  those  superior  deities  who  willed  it  thus. 

[89] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

*'  Wa-hca-ska !  Wa-hca-ska !  "  moaned  Smoke  Wom- 
an. 

She  fell  on  her  knees  and  remained  thus  for  a  long 
time,  her  sharp,  beady  eyes,  quickened  by  despair  and 
mother-love,  watching  cunningly  for  her  chance. 

At  sundown,  when  Katharine  Mendenhall  dismounted 
and  entered,  unbidden,  she  had  found  the  way;  but  the 
way  did  not  end  here  at  the  home  of  Black  Tomahawk. 
If  she  had  been  wiser  or  more  experienced,  she  would 
have,  perhaps,  realized  that  it  was  yet  over  early  for  a 
white  woman  to  go  alone  into  the  heart  of  a  Sioux  village 
—  even  if  it  was  a  village  of  friendly  Yanktonais.  But 
her  impulsive  heart  was  aching  for  the  White  Flower, 
withering  away,  perhaps,  because  of  her  heartless  selfish- 
ness ;  so,  though  she  quaked  in  real  fear,  her  courage  and 
remorse  carried  her  through,  and  she  had  come  alone, 
leaving  word  at  the  Agency  for  some  one  to  come  for  her 
when  her  father  or  Hugh  Hunt  came  home.  The  sight 
of  Smoke  Woman  kneeling  beside  the  lowly  couch  gave 
her  comfort,  and  she  crossed  quickly  to  her.  The  In- 
dians gave  no  visible  sign  of  the  astounding  phenome- 
non of  her  appearance  among  them;  but  the  harsh  dis- 
cord of  the  conjurer's  manipulations  ceased,  suddenly, 
and  an  ominous  silence  settled  down  upon  the  sick 
chamber. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  famous  necro- 
mancer, who  hated  the  white  man  and  the  white 
man's  creed  with  all  the  vindictiveness  of  a  sav- 
age heart  that  heard  the  knell  of  his  iniquitous 
profession  in  the  cooling  drip  of  the  white  man's 

[90] 


THE        LITTLE        OX' 

medicine,  and  in  the  sweet  voice  of  the  White  Robe 
when  he  promised  a  brotherhood  of  red  and  white, 
saw  through  the  ruse  of  the  desperate  mother,  and  per- 
haps understood,  as  well,  why  once  more  Wa-hca-ska 
slumbered  peacefully  and  naturally.  His  eyes  glittered 
like  a  snake's.  He  straightened  himself,  folded  his  dark, 
shining  arms  across  his  naked  chest,  and  nursed  a 
haughty  silence. 

Soon  Black  Tomahawk  spoke.  There  was  much  dig- 
nity in  his  simple  words  and  broken  English. 

"  Wa-hca-ska  will  live.  Me,  I  am  grateful.  Wa- 
kantanka  hear  our  prayers.  Yellow  Owl  great  Wapiya. 
Son  of  Little  Thunder  he  grateful,  too.  He  dance  the 
great  Sun  Dance  two,  three  sleeps  now.  Injun  god 
good.  Injun  god  powerful.  Black  Tomahawk,  me,  I 
go  across  the  big  river  see  son  of  Little  Thunder  give 
thanks  for  Wa-hca-ska,  Sun-in-the-hair  much  kind. 
Me,  I  am  grateful.  She  far  from  home.  Me,  I  have 
much  proud  that  she  here.  She  lodge  with  Black  Tom- 
ahawk this  sleep.  Smoke  Woman  and  all  the  women 
relatives  of  Black  Tomahawk  will  make  a  feast.  She 
Tahu  Tanka's  daughter.  Me,  I  shake  hands  with  Tahu 
Tanka.  I  make  a  feast  for  Sun-in-the-hair." 

When  Locke  Raynor,  sent  by  the  distracted  mother 
who  had  discovered  Katharine's  absence  and  errand  be- 
fore the  Agent's  return,  arrived  with  his  horse  in  a 
lather,  he  found  Katharine  in  a  fever  to  be  off.  Intu- 
ition told  her  to  smother  her  impatience  long  enough  to 
eat  of  the  quick  feast  prepared  for  her  by  Black  Tom- 
ahawk's women,  but  no  persuasion  could  prevail  upon 

[91] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

her  to  spend  the  night.  Locke  Raynor's  coming  for 
her  by  order  of  some  one  at  the  Agency,  presumably 
Tahu  Tanka,  absolved  her  from  yielding  to  the  chief's 
hospitable  request. 

"  Is  your  horse  winded?  "  she  asked,  as  Locke  assisted 
her  into  the  saddle. 

"  He  came  at  the  limit  but  he  can  return  in  like  man- 
ner. Why?"  responded  Locke,  trying  to  decide 
whether  to  scold  her  for  an  unreasonable  child,  thus  to 
jeopardize  her  life  so  insanely,  or  to  think  of  her  as  the 
bravest  woman  he  knew  —  and  he  knew  many  —  as  he 
had  already  thought  of  her  as  the  most  beautiful,  since 
the  night  she  came  to  him  by  the  dying  camp-fire. 

"  Then  let  us  return  at  —  the  limit,"  she  said  peremp- 
torily. 

"  Why?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  Because  I  must  see  Hugh  Hunt  to-night." 

"  Won't  to-morrow  morning  do  as  well  ?  " 

"  No.  He  starts  for  the  Upper  Camp  at  six  o'clock 
and  I  must  see  him  before  he  goes." 

Yes,  Katharine  Mendenhall  was  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  bravest  woman  he  knew;  but  a  shadow  clouded  his 
eyes,  though  there  was  no  one  to  see  it;  for  Katharine 
was  already  racing  home,  and  there  was  nothing  for 
him  to  do  but  to  follow  her  through  the  quiet  dark. 


[92] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    SUN    DANCE 

RUNNING  BIRD  and  his  band  of  young  bucks 
had  returned  after  the  twelve  sleeps,  punctual 
to  the  promise  given  Hugh  Hunt.  They  were  now  on 
the  point  of  leaving  for  their  own  Reservation  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  Just  what  the  warlike  demon- 
stration augured  was  not  easy  to  determine.  They 
were  wanderers  all  —  the  Teton  Sioux.  Perhaps  it 
meant  only  the  wanderlust  in  their  blood,  called  forth 
by  the  magic  touch  of  Summer  on  the  high  prairies.  It 
was  a  little  odd  that  their  rovings  should  have  carried 
them  over  into  the  territory  of  the  peaceful  Yanktons. 
They  liked  best  to  visit  with  the  wilder  tribes  border- 
ing their  own  domain,  and  with  whom  they  were  in  con- 
stant communication.  No  wonder  was  expressed  at 
Running  Bird's  visits  to  the  Yanktonais.  The  friend- 
ship that  had  existed  between  Little  Thunder  and  Black 
Tomahawk  was  well  known  at  the  Agency.  The  mantle 
of  Little  Thunder's  friendship  for  Black  Tomahawk 
had  fallen  upon  his  son  and  the  bond  between  the  young 
man  and  the  old  chief  was  very  close  indeed.  Thus 
Running  Bird's  visits  to  the  Yanktonais  were  never 

[93] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIE 

questioned.  It  seemed  incredible  that  the  mere  fact  of 
Custer's  being  in  the  Black  Hills  should  excite  so 
thoughtful  and  reasonable  a  man  as  Running  Bird  had 
always  shown  himself  to  be.  The  military  authorities 
laughed  at  the  idea  and  let  him  alone.  Major  Menden- 
hall  spent  some  sleepless  hours  over  the  vexing  problem, 
and  decided,  also,  to  let  him  alone. 

Hugh  Hunt  lay  awake  all  the  rest  of  the  night  after 
Katharine  had  sought  him  out,  and  he  was  up  and 
dressed  at  daylight.  He  had  not  the  power  to  let 
Running  Bird  alone.  He  had  learned  to  admire  the 
young  Indian  for  many  a  wise  word  and  daring  deed; 
he  had  learned  to  honor  him  on  that  night  of  storm,  when 
a  dusky  heathen  gave  up  his  shelter  to  a  white  Chris- 
tian woman;  but  he  had  learned  to  love  him  on  a 
journey  long  ago,  when  side  by  side  the  red  and  white 
lay  down  to  sleep  beneath  a  brooding,  spangled  sky, 
or  rode  together  under  a  blazing  sun  through  many  a 
silent  hour  on  a  secret  mission  unauthorized  of  man. 
Red  Cloud  had  kept  faith.  That  crisis  was  safely 
passed.  But  another  was  coming,  and  while  the  mili- 
tary laughed,  he  must  be  girding  himself  for  the  battle. 
Running  Bird  must  keep  faith,  too.  And  how?  Not 
coercion,  nor  fear,  nor  scorn,  nor  double-dealing  would 
avail  with  the  son  of  Little  Thunder,  no  more  than  it 
had  availed  with  the  just  Oglala,  Red  Cloud.  Nay, 
more  —  with  the  blood  of  the  murdered  chief  yet  un- 
avenged, with  apparently  groundless  but  nevertheless 
strong  suspicions  of  contemplated  treachery  on  the  part 
of  the  Government,  nothing  could  avail  with  Running 

[94] 


THE         SUN        DANCE 

Bird  now  but  the  light  of  a  diviner  faith  than  any  told 
in  tradition  or  sacrificed  to  in  savage  ceremony. 

They  had  talked  little  of  religion  during  those  long, 
bright,  Indian  Summer  days  and  cool,  silent  nights  of 
that  journey  to  Fort  Laramie  five  years  ago.  Some- 
thing in  the  Indian's  imperturbable  and  polite  toler- 
ance seemed  a  constant  suggestion  to  Hugh  Hunt  that 
it  was  not  yet  the  time.  Besides,  the  days  and  nights 
had  been  a  succession  of  such  still  and  beautiful  ones, 
so  removed,  so  altogether  free  from  warring  man  or 
beast  or  element,  such  bright  pearls  of  perfect  peace, 
that  there  seemed  to  be  no  need  in  all  the  world  for  a 
fighting  faith.  Here  was  creed  exemplified  —  the  creed 
of  sun  and  stars,  of  day  and  night,  of  river  and  moun- 
tain ;  the  eagle  circling  above  its  nest ;  the  peaks  softened 
by  the  blue  of  Indian  Summer;  the  timid  deer  peeking 
through  evergreen  glade,  the  huge  timber  wolf  turn- 
ing to  gaze  with  a  mild  curiosity  after  the  travellers  — 
all  at  peace.  It  was  on  days  like  those  that  this  red 
man  and  this  white  man  learned  to  love  each  other  with 
the  peculiar  love  of  David  and  Jonathan. 

They  had  not  even  thought  much  about  religion. 
The  days,  though  long,  had  been  so  full  of  other  things, 
and  of  a  great  content.  They  had  felt  so  little  need  of 
a  religion  apart  from  the  glorious  atmosphere  and  the 
companioned  way.  But  now,  riding  over  to  Running 
Bird's  camp  in  the  early  morning,  Hugh  Hunt  asked 
himself,  searchingly,  had  his  great  opportunity  come 
and  gone,  and  had  he  been  too  indolent,  too  indifferent, 
to  grasp  it  as  it  passed  by? 

[95] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  My  brother  is  early,"  was  Running  Bird's  greeting, 
coming  out  of  his  tipi.  "  I  shake  hands  with  my 
brother  with  my  heart." 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  cross  the  river  to-day  ?  "  asked 
Hugh,  returning  the  greeting,  heartily. 

"  The  Slender  Ash  looks  weary,"  said  Running  Bird, 
evasively,  "  he  works  all  the  time." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Hugh,  with  a  sudden 
frank  smile,  "  it  was  you  who  kept  me  awake,  Running 
Bird.  It  is  sleep  I  need  and  you  take  it  from  me." 

"  It  pleases  the  Slender  Ash  to  jest,"  said  Running 
Bird,  simply. 

Others  were  coming  out  of  the  tents,  preparatory  to 
the  flitting.  In  the  absence  of  women  in  the  camp,  two 
or  three  of  the  bucks  were  lazily  getting  the  breakfast. 
Mad  Wolf  lounged  out,  sleepily,  grunted  a  short  greet- 
ing, and  threw  himself  down  upon  the  sod  behind  Run- 
ning Bird  and  Hugh  Hunt.  Presently,  Running  Bird 
moved  away,  unconcernedly,  and  Hugh  followed. 

"  The  Slender  Ash  has  something  on  his  mind,"  said 
Running  Bird,  when  they  had  left  the  camp  behind  them. 

"  Why  do  you  leave  us  to-day  ?  "  asked  Hugh.  "  It 
is  lonesome  without  my  brother." 

"  If  the  Slender  Ash  will  come  to  the  point,  I  will 
answer  him  with  much  gladness,"  said  Running  Bird, 
patiently. 

"Who  began  this  evasion,  Running  Bird?"  said 
Hugh,  a  touch  of  reproof  in  his  voice.  "  The  news 
was  brought  to  me  that  you  intended  to  break  camp 
to-day  and  return  to  your  home.  I  ask  you,  '  Is  it 

[96] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

true?  '  And  you  say  to  me,  *  The  Slender  Ash  looks 
weary.'  Was  that  kind?  Running  Bird  is  the  son  of 
a  chief.  He  is  a  great  leader.  He  goes  where  he 
pleases.  But  he  is  my  brother  and  I  miss  him  when  he 
goes  away  —  and  he  says  to  me,  '  The  Slender  Ash  looks 
weary.'  " 

The  reproof  hurt,  but  Running  Bird  gave  no  sign  of 
it.  His  glance  wandered  back  to  where  Mad  Wolf 
still  lounged  on  the  green  turf. 

"  '  The  news  was  brought,'  "  he  repeated,  thought- 
fully. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Running  Bird,"  interrupted 
Hugh,  quickly.  "  It  was  not  Mad  Wolf  who  told 
me." 

"Who  then?" 

"  Well,  I  heard  it  —  I  come  to  you  —  and  it  is  true. 
You  were  going  away  without  saying  good-bye." 

Still  Running  Bird  did  not  relent. 

"  It  would  hurt  my  little  white  brother  for  me  to  tell 
him  that  I  go  to  dance  to  the  great  sun.  Therefore  I 
do  not  tell  him.  I  say  good-bye  in  my  heart.  But  he 
knows.  Some  one  tells  him  —  and  he  is  sorry.  I  said 
he  would  be  sorry." 

"  And  you  would  really  go  without  saying  good- 
bye? "  said  Hugh,  a  mournfulness  in  his  tone  that  would 
not  be  denied.  He  was  thinking  of  the  long,  bright  days 
and  nights  of  their  companionship. 

Running  Bird  nodded.     Pie  was  very  grave. 

"  But  you  won't  go  now  —  now  that  I  know  and  am 
here  to  ask  you  not  ?  You  believe  me,  do  you  not,  when 
7  [97] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

I  tell  you  that  your  medicine  men  talk  lies  when  they 
institute  these  devil  dances  in  the  name  of  some  imaginary 
deity?" 

"  My  brother  is  not  polite,"  said  Running  Bird,  dis- 
passionately. "  He  will  not  listen  to  our  stories  of  how 
the  Dakotas  came  to  people  the  earth  and  of  the  spirits 
that  watch  over  us.  He  says,  '  Lies.'  Yet  he  wants  us 
to  listen  to  his  stories  and  to  believe  them.  That  seems 
strange  to  us.  But  we  are  more  polite  than  my  brother. 
We  do  listen  and  we  believe  them,  too." 

How  to  argue  a  faith  like  that!  A  faith  that  was 
courteous  enough  to  believe  any  tale  of  any  race  —  no 
matter  how  mythological  its  character,  or  how  dizzily 
impossible  its  imaginative  conception. 

"  Running  Bird,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  there  is  only  one 
God.  You  must  see  that,  don't  you?  And  God  is  God 
of  all  people  —  black  and  white  and  red.  That  must  be 
so  or  how  can  we  live  and  grow  and  be  strong  and  at 
peace?  Don't  you  see  that  if  every  people  had  a  dif- 
ferent God  and  some  people  even  had  many,  that  the 
very  gods  would  be  constantly  fighting  each  other  — 
and  that  ever  the  battle  would  be  to  the  strong?  " 

"  My  brother  speaks  truth,"  said  Running  Bird,  nod- 
ding gravely.  "  The  battle  is  ever  to  the  strong.  The 
white  man  is  very  strong.  Pie  is  as  many  as  the  leaves 
of  many  trees." 

"  But,  Running  Bird,  we  poor,  puny  men  fight  because 
we  do  not  understand.  Can't  you  imagine  a  God  who  is 
great  enough  and  good  enough  and  wise  enough  to  gov- 
ern the  world  without  fighting?  Running  Bird,"  involun- 

[98] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

tarily  his  voice  lowered  with  intense  feeling,  "  our  Elder 
Brother  died  on  the  cross  without  fighting.  Do  you 
think  He  was  a  coward  because  He  would  not  fight? 
They  drove  nails  through  His  hands  and  His  feet  and 
His  side,  but  He  did  not  cry  out.  He  said,  '  Father, 
forgive  them.' ' 

For  the  first  time,  the  Indian's  proud  head  dropped 
a  little.  His  eyes  unconsciously  wavered.  Of  all  the 
stories  of  the  white  man's  religion,  this  one  alone  of 
the  Man  on  the  Cross  had  the  power  to  move  him  and  to 
make  him  strangely  restless. 

"  Can  a  man  be  better  and  stronger  and  wiser  than 
God,  Running  Bird?  You  say  you  believe  me  when  1 
tell  you  about  the  Christ  on  the  Cross.  You  believe  there 
was  such  a  man.  He  was  the  Son  of  God.  He  did  not 
fight.  He  did  not  kill.  He  did  not  seek  revenge  for 
injuries.  If  He  had,  it  would  have  been  very  easy  for 
Him  to  raise  an  army  and  go  upon  the  warpath  and  de- 
stroy all  His  enemies,  or  strike  them  numb  with  some 
plague  of  sickness.  Don't  you  see  that  you  make  your 
gods  just  like  men  —  fighting  and  quarreling  and  sin- 
ning? To-day,  one  god  is  the  strongest.  To-morrow, 
another.  My  friend,  God  is  the  strongest  yesterday,  to- 
day, and  forever." 

Running  Bird  was  goaded  to  retaliate. 

"  If  He  is  so  strong,  why  then  did  He  not  kill  those 
men  who  drove  the  nails?  Maybe  there  were  other  gods 

—  superior.     Maybe  He  could  not  resist  the  tonwans  of 
these  others.     Onkteri  and  Wakinyan  are  enemies,  always 

—  as  the  Dakotas  and  the  Oj  ibwas  always  were,  back  at 

[99] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL' 

the  head  waters  of  the  Mississippi.  Onkteri  created  the 
earth  —  the  mother  Onkteri,  the  earth,  and  the  father 
Onkteri,  the  water  that  is  all  around.  They  are  very 
big  and  powerful.  But  Wakinyan  is  also  powerful. 
He  is  a  very  great  war  god.  He  speaks  in  the  thunder. 
Yet,  Onkteri  and  Wakinyan  fall  beneath  each  other's 
tonwans.  They  cannot  resist  them.  A  god  who  cannot 
fight  is  a  very  big  coward." 

"  Running  Bird,  do  your  jossdkeeds  ever  tell  you  what 
becomes  of  your  Onkteri  and  Wakinyan  when  they  are 
slain  by  each  other's  tonwans?  " 

A  peculiar  look  of  almost  wonder  came  into  the  In- 
dian's eyes ;  then  he  answered  with  dignity : 

"  They  keep  away  from  each  other  so  they  will  not 
meet." 

"  Then  they  are  cowards  —  like  men.  If  they  should 
happen  on  each  other  and  put  each  other  to  death,  what 
would  become  of  your  world,  Running  Bird,  the  Indian 
world  which  worships  weaklings  ?  " 

"  There  are  other  gods,"  said  Running  Bird,  evasively. 

"  And  you  believe  in  them?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Who  are  Yellow  Owl's  particular  gods  ?  "  asked 
Hugh,  eagerly,  a  surge  of  j  oy  rising  in  his  heart  at  the 
fighting  chance  he  read  in  that  brief  answer. 

"  Ask  him,"  said  Running  Bird,  relapsing  once  more 
into  his  racial  reticence  in  regard  to  religion. 

Hugh  Hunt  believed  the  time  had  come  for  him  to 
play  his  trump  card.  His  face  was  pale  and  composed, 
but  his  eyes  were  burning  with  that  strange  lustre  that 

[100] 


THE        SUN        D  A  X  C  E 

seemed  ever  to  threaten  to  consume  his  body.  In  h's 
heart,  he  believed  that  he  was  at  last  playing  a  winning 
game.  The  odds  had  been  fearful.  Sometime  he  would 
remember  how  the  fight  had  sapped  his  vitality.  He 
would  be  very  tired  to-morrow. 

"  Running  Bird,  it  was  not  Yellow  Owl  who  made  Wa- 
hca-ska  well.  She  sickened  again  after  you  left  and 
Katharine  Mendenhall,  whom  you  all  call  Sun-in-the-hair, 
came  and  gave  her  medicine  and  cared  for  her,  and  she 
is  almost  well  now.  It  was  white  man's  medicine  and 
white  man's  care  that  healed  her,  my  brother.  Yellow 
Owl  would  have  killed  her  with  his  wicked  incantations 
and  pretensions  to  wakan  power.  She  would  have  been 
dead  now  but  for  Sun-in-the-hair." 

"  I  shake  hands  with  Sun-in-the-hair  with  my  heart,'* 
said  Running  Bird,  simply. 

The  young  Missionary  came  close  to  Running  Bird 
and  put  his  arm  around  his  shoulders  in  the  old  affec- 
tionate way.  His  eyes  were  alight. 

"  And  you  will  stay  with  us  yet  a  few  more  days?  " 

"  I  go  now,"  said  Running  Bird,  calmly ;  and  sud- 
denly Hugh  Hunt's  face  was  the  face  of  an  old  man. 

"  Why,  Running  Bird?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  dance  to  the  sun,"  said  Running  Bird,  phleg- 
matically. 

"  Why,  Running  Bird  ?  "  asked  Hugh,  again. 

"  I  make  my  vow.     I  dance." 

"  You  made  it  when  you  thought  Yellow  Owl  had 
healed  Wa-hca-ska.  He  did  not.  You  are  absolved 
from  your  vow." 

[101] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"•  Black  Tomahawk  heard  my  vow.  Yellow  Owl  heard 
it.  Many  young  men  of  the  Yanktonais  heard  it  — 
and  Black  Tomahawk's  women.  My  young  men  know 
why  I  return.  I  am  not  a  coward.  Little  Thunder  had 
the  scars  of  it  on  his  breast  when  he  died.  His  son  will 
have  the  scars,  too,  when  he  comes  to  die." 

"  It  is  such  a  useless  sacrifice,  Running  Bird !  " 

"  Your  Man  on  the  Cross  did  not  have  to  do  that  — 
but  he  did  not  cry  out.  Running  Bird  will  not  cry  out. 
You  shall  see." 

"  None  know  better  than  I  that  you  will  not  cry  out," 
said  Hugh,  sadly.  "  It  is  not  that.  Oh,  Running  Bird, 
can't  you  see?  " 

"  Good-bye,  my  brother." 

Had  that  journey  westward  through  long,  lazy  days 
and  dreamy  nights  been  his  opportunity  and  he  had 
missed  it  ?  Had  that  been  the  time  for  him  to  show  Run- 
ning Bird  that  the  warm  sun,  the  light  winds,  the  fair, 
wild  landscape,  yellow  and  gold  and  blue  under  the  kindly 
but  sadly  prescient  touch  of  October,  the  far  away  stars, 
were  not  God  but  God's  handiwork?  There  had  been 
nothing  to  distract  then.  Had  he  done  well  to  be  so 
idly  content  with  just  fellowship?  Perhaps,  if  he  had 
spoken  then,  Running  Bird  would  not  now  be  preparing 
to  dance  his  heathen  jubilate  to  a  staring  sun.  Thus 
Hugh  Hunt  communed  with  himself,  walking  home  with 
bent  head  and  the  face  of  an  old  man. 

Later,  as  he  was  packing  a  small  travelling  kit  in 
accordance  with  a  sudden  determination  that  had  seized 
him,  he  was  surprised  when  the  door  of  the  mission  house 

[102] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

was  opened  and  Mad  Wolf  slouched  into  the  room.  He 
was  a  handsome  fellow,  Mad  Wolf,  in  a  dark,  moody 
way,  and  when  moved,  he  had  the  gift  of  speech  to  a 
strange  and  unusual  degree.  Now,  however,  he  waited 
for  the  Missionary  to  make  the  first  essay,  ignoring  the 
invitation  to  be  seated.  A  great  hope  had  sprung  up  in 
the  Missionary's  heart. 

"  Is  Running  Bird  not  then  gone?  "  he  asked,  eagerly, 
in  Dakota. 

"  Running  Bird  is  gone,"  said  the  Indian,  laconic- 
ally. 

"  Why  are  you  here  then  ?  I  supposed,  of  course,  all 
of  his  young  men  were  going  back  with  him." 

"  I  stayed,  but  — "  said  Mad  Wolf,  and  paused  as  if 
he  had  expressed  himself  lucidly,  and  Hugh  Hunt,  who  in* 
his  more  than  five  years'  sojourn  in  the  Sioux  country 
had  not  only  learned  to  understand  and  to  speak  the 
formal  language,  but  had  made  acquaintance  with  its- 
idioms  as  well,  understood. 

"  You  stayed  but  you  would  have  gone  had  it  not 
been  for  some  strong  reason  that  kept  you.  Well,  what 
is  that  reason  ?  " 

"  The  forerunner  of  the  White  Robe  is  a  man  of 
much  wisdom  and  power,"  began  Mad  Wolf,  suavely. 
"  When  he  speaks,  all  men  listen  —  white  and  Dakota. 
He  should  be  called  Silver  Tongue.  It  is  a  great  gift. 
It  makes  us  hear  the  voices  of  new  gods.  It  makes  us 
know  that  he  who  has  this  great  gift  is  wisest  of  us 
all.  It  makes  his  power  very  great.  It  makes  us  poor 
Indians  do  his  bidding.  It  moves  — " 

[103] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Mad  Wolf,"  interrupted  Hugh,  quietly, 
"  but  tell  me  what  you  want.  I  am  in  a  very  great 
hurry.  The  boat  will  be  crossing,  presently,  and  I  must 
be  on  it  when  it  goes." 

"So?" 

The  Indian's  eyes  narrowed  —  the  only  visible  sign 
that  his  pride  felt  the  sting  of  this  affront  to  his  oratory. 
He  had  scarcely  begun  what  he  had  intended  to  say. 
He  could  not  finish  it  well  under  half  an  hour.  His 
heart  swelled  with  a  new  bitterness  toward  the  white  man 
with  his  insolent  haste. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  made  answer,  forcing  himself  to  a 
disagreeable  task  of  coming  to  the  point  at  once,  "  to 
ask  the  Silver  Tongue  to  go  to  Chief  Black  Tomahawk 
and  say  to  him  that  Mad  Wolf,  of  Running  Bird's  band, 
desires  his  daughter,  Wa-hca-ska,  for  his  wife." 

"But,  Mad  Wolf!"  cried  Hugh,  surprised.  "Wa- 
hca-ska  is  not  of  your  tribe." 

"  We  often  marry  out  of  our  tribe,"  said  Mad  Wolf, 
composedly. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  her?  " 

"  Black  Tomahawk  is  a  great  chief.  It  is  better  that 
the  Silver  Tongue  speak  for  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am  the  right  '  go  between,'  Mad 
Wolf,"  said  the  Missionary,  perplexed.  "  I  do  not  think 
Black  Tomahawk  likes  me  on  account  of  my  —  faith." 

"  You  have  the  gift  of  the  silver  tongue.  Black 
Tomahawk  will  listen.  He  knows  the  Silver  Tongue  is 
a  very  wise  man.  His  sons  are  dead.  He  will  be  glad 
for  Wa-hca-ska  to  be  guided  by  the  wise  white  man.  I 

[104] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

have  ponies  and  very  fine  skins.  I  do  not  forget  that 
Black  Tomahawk  is  a  very  great  chief  of  the  Dakotas." 

"  I  saw  you  drunk  the  other  day,"  began  Hugh  delib- 
erately. He  half  expected  a  blow  and  waited  for  it 
calmly ;  but  Mad  Wolf  was  not  sensitive  on  this  point. 
He  even  smiled. 

"  There  is  no  more  fire-water  on  the  Reservation. 
Anyway  I  will  not  drink  any  more  when  you  go  to  Black 
Tomahawk  and  speak  for  me." 

The  temptation  was  very  great.  With  all  his  heart, 
Hugh  Hunt  wished  that  he  might  say : 

"  I  will  go,  Mad  Wolf,  and  do  the  best  I  can  for  you 
when  I  come  back  from  across  the  river.  I  believe  you 
are  a  good  Indian.  How  could  my  brother,  Running 
Bird,  have  any  but  good  Indians  for  his  friends?  I  have 
your  promise  not  to  drink  any  more  fire-water.  Shake 
hands  with  me  for  that." 

But  he  could  not.  Running  Bird  had  never  told  him 
that  he  loved  Wa-hca-ska  and  wanted  her  for  his  wife. 
He  had  only  guessed  it.  Running  Bird  could  not  hold 
him  accountable.  Wa-hca-ska  had  an  Indian  heart. 
If  Running  Bird  married  her,  there  would  be  no  more 
hope  for  his  regeneration  —  and  he  loved  Running 
Bird.  He  believed  Running  Bird's  sacrificial  dance  of 
gratitude  had  been  prompted  by  the  young  Dakota's 
love  for  Wa-hca-ska.  Some  day  soon  would  Running 
Bird  come  to  him  and  ask  him  to  speak  with  Black 
Tomahawk?  But  would  he  not  be  justified  for  Run- 
ning Bird's  soul's  sake  —  Running  Bird  who  had  been 
his  companion  for  those  many  days  and  nights?  Ah, 

[105] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

no!  It  was  because  of  those  companioned  days  and 
nights  that  he  could  not  say  what  tempted  him,  sorely. 
He  had  failed  on  that  j  ourney  —  doubtless  he  was  fail- 
ing again  —  but  Running  Bird  was  his  friend.  There 
was  no  other  way. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,  Mad  Wolf,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  I  cannot  be  your  emissary  to  Black  Tomahawk. 
Good-bye." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  was  gone,  leaving  the  Indian 
gazing  after  him  with  such  concentrated  hate  in  his 
piercing  eyes  that  it  seemed  as  if  Hugh  Hunt  must  be 
conscious  of  it  as  he  strode  rapidly  down  to  the  land- 
ing. 

The  sun  rose  hot  and  glaring  on  the  morning  of  the 
day  appointed  for  the  beginning  of  the  fast  of  the 
sun  dance.  It  was  greeted  by  a  long  row  of  dark  faces, 
turned  resolutely  toward  the  spot  of  its  heralded  ap- 
proach. There  was  not  a  glimpse  of  shade  on  the  plain 
where  the  barbarous  endurance  trial  was  to  drag  pain- 
fully on  through  that  day  and  the  next,  and  possibly 
even  longer  than  that,  if  a  sufficient  number  of  fanatics 
were  forthcoming  to  make  its  continuance  worth  while. 
It  was  a  breathless  morning,  too,  though  haze  on  the 
horizon  gave  hint  of  the  hot  south  wind  that  was  even 
then  on  the  way  to  sear  the  grass  and  to  aid  the  sun 
in  his  fight  to  break  down  the  pride  and  the  boasts  of 
the  devotees. 

The  near  tribes  had  been  gathering  for  several  days. 
Black  Tomahawk,  a  Chief  of  the  Yanktonais,  with  his 
fierce,  white-headed,  aged  mother  —  a  hopeless  exponent 

[106] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

of  the  old  days  —  was  there.  Yellow  Owl,  the  famous 
medicine  man,  was  there.  Many  chiefs  and  braves  of 
more  distant  bands  still  were  also  there  with  their 
women  —  always  the  bitterest  toward  white  innovation ; 
while  every  man  on  the  home  reserve  who  was  physically 
able  had  brought  his  family  and  pitched  his  tipi  in  the 
circle  surrounding  the  spot  chosen  for  the  dance. 
Major  Mendenhall  was  there  —  big,  smiling,  tolerant, 
devoting  much  of  his  time  to  mopping  the  perspi- 
ration from  his  face.  With  him  was  Katharine,  in- 
terested in  spite  of  herself,  a  wide  straw  hat  protecting 
her  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  sun.  With  the  Major  and 
his  daughter  was  the  new  issue  clerk.  To  this  small 
group  of  whites,  standing  near  the  dancers,  came  Hugh 
Hunt  —  the  gold  cross  on  his  waistcoat,  sun-struck, 
gleaming  with  a  peculiar  radiance.  With  the  Missionary 
was  a  stranger. 

"  Of  all  people !  "  exclaimed  Locke  Raynor,  with  a 
light  laugh,  "  How  do  you  reconcile  your  conscience  ?  " 

"  Time  enough  to  do  penance  when  this  is  all  over," 
said  Hugh,  also  lightly.  "  I  bring  you  a  guest,  Major, 
from  Washington." 

"  Why,  then,  he  must  be  Inspector  Warlick.  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Inspector?  We  have  been  looking  for  you 
for  the  last  two  or  three  weeks."  He  held  out  his  hand, 
cordially. 

"  I  was  detained,"  said  the  Inspector,  noncommit- 
tally.  He  extended  a  cool,  well-kept  hand,  without  en- 
thusiasm, in  response  to  the  Major's  hearty  greeting. 

"  Katharine,  let  me  present  Mr.  Warlick,  who  doubt- 
[107] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

less  hankers  to  take  our  scalps,  officially.  My  daughter, 
Mr.  Warlick,  and  Mr.  Raynor,  our  new  issue  clerk  — 
like  you,  from  Washington.  How  on  earth  did  you  two 
laggards  get  across  the  river?  " 

"  I  was  too  late  for  the  boat  yesterday  when  it 
crossed  Running  Bird  and  his  band,  and  again  this  morn- 
ing when  you  came  across.  That  was  an  unearthly  hour 
for  a  civilized  man  to  get  out  of  bed,  Major.  How  did 
you  manage  it?  So  I  had  abandoned  my  determination 
to  participate  in  this  —  orgie,"  explained  Hugh,  "  when 
the  Peninah  steamed  into  port  with  Mr.  Warlick  aboard, 
and  we  persuaded  it  to  land  us  on  this  side  with  one  of 
the  dories.  Our  horses  swam  —  and  here  we  are." 

To  Katharine,  the  Inspector  was  exceedingly  polite. 
To  Locke  Raynor,  he  merely  inclined  a  stately  gray 
head,  with  the  words  — "  Mr.  Raynor  has  time,  then,  for 
such  tomfoolery  as  this?  " 

"  I  take  it,"  was  Locke's  cheerful  response. 

"  Indeed!  "  said  Warlick,  softly. 

"  I  left  the  Chief  Clerk  doing  everything  as  well  — " 
began  Hugh. 

"As  I  could  do  —  or  better,"  completed  the  Major, 
with  his  jolly  laugh.  "  I  don't  doubt  it  in  the  least,  so 
I  will  stay  for  a  little  while,  anyway.  I  really  have  a 
great  curiosity  to  see  that  young  spitfire  win  his  scars." 

The  dancing  had  begun  in  earnest.  The  faces  of  the 
religious  enthusiasts  were  turned  ever  directly  toward 
the  sun,  following  it  on  its  slow,  burning  course  to  the 
zenith.  The  majority  of  the  participants,  including  all 
the  women,  merely  executed  the  peculiar  and  monotonous 

[108] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

steps  of  the  dance  ceaselessly,  with  little  outward  sign 
of  weariness,  gazing  ever  at  the  sun,  the  weird  tom- 
tom beating  its  monotonous  accompaniment.  But  here 
and  there  were  extremists  who  —  yearning  for  the  ad- 
miration and  commendation  of  their  tribe  and  kindred, 
greedy  for  the  glory  of  the  scars  which  should  be  a 
never-lapsing  proof  of  their  bravery  and  endurance,  and 
constant  food  for  their  vanity,  forever  setting  them 
apart  as  very  famous  men  among  their  people  —  had 
chosen  the  supreme  test.  Most  of  these  were  young 
men.  Among  them  was  the  high  caste  son  of  Chief  Lit- 
tle Thunder.  His  face  was  composed  with  a  lofty 
pride.  His  dark  eyes,  however  dulled  by  their  direct 
gaze  at  the  terrible  sun,  never  wavered  from  the  task  set 
them  by  the  indomitable  will  of  the  man.  Those  who 
knew  him  best  —  most  of  all,  Hugh  Hunt  —  saw  the 
awful  gauntness  of  his  beardless  cheeks,  brought  about 
by  the  fasting  before  and  the  pain  of  the  dance  —  and 
it  was  not  yet  noon.  He  was  the  proudest  man,  per- 
haps, among  all  the  Sioux  nations.  Must  he  fail? 

Through  two  raw  holes  in 'the  sensitive  flesh  of  his 
chest  was  threaded  a  thong  of  deerskin.  The  ends  of 
this  ribbon  of  seasoned  hide  were  firmly  attached  to  a 
pole,  so  that  by  throwing  himself  back,  the  strain  of  his 
weight  would  come  on  that  slight  measure  of  quivering 
flesh  on  his  breast.  So  conscientiously  did  Running 
Bird  lean  away  from  the  pole  that  the  wonder  was  the 
thong  did  not  tear  its  way  through  at  once;  but  the 
hot  morning  dragged  wearily  away,  and  it  held.  The 
south  wind,  burning  and  enervating,  seared  the  grass 

[109] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

and  blistered  the  earth.  There  was  not  the  faintest  sug- 
gestion of  cloud  or  the  coming  of  cloud.  Without  let 
or  hindrance,  out  of  the  far  away  blue,  the  sun  beat  down 
hotter  and  hotter,  as  if  in  very  truth  to  wither  these 
pygmy  defiers  of  its  majesty. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  get  out  of  this  or  have 
apoplexy,"  said  the  Major. 

"  Please,  father,  not  just  yet,"  pleaded  Katharine. 
"  It  is  awful  —  but  splendid,  too.  I  want  to  see  Run- 
ning Bird  win.  Let  us  stay  a  little  longer." 

Was  this  the  same  girl  who  had  shrunk  in  terror  at 
the  mere  thought  of  the  Indian  country?  Hugh  Hunt 
and  Locke  Raynor  looked  at  her,  curiously.  There  was 
hero  worship  in  her  frank  blue  eyes.  She  it  was  who  had 
warned  the  young  Missionary  of  the  Indian's  intention 
to  j  oin  this  brutal  dance.  Yet  now  she  stayed  to  see  this 
same  Running  Bird  win  a  savage  victory  and  be  re- 
warded with  those  honors  so  peculiarly  yearned  after 
by  his  elemental  race  —  scars  to  tickle  the  vanity  while 
life  lasted,  and  to  make  one  remembered  when  one  was 
gone.  Locke  Raynor,  not  later  from  the  East  than  she, 
smiled  in  puzzled  wonderment.  But  Hugh  Hunt,  also 
from  the  East  but  of  an  earlier  day,  from  a  well-born, 
well-bred,  well-financed  East,  whose  high  caste  showed 
in  his  small,  shapely  hands  and  feet;  in  a  certain  al- 
together unconscious  courtliness  of  manner ;  in  his  pure, 
unstudied  speech  and  lofty  scholarship,  and  in  the 
absolute  grace  with  which  he  had  left  all  these  things 
behind  —  this  same  Hugh  Hunt  seemed  all  at  once  to  un- 
derstand. For  his  own  blood  began  to  pound  through 

[110] 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

his  veins  in  lust  of  victory  for  his  sworn  red  brother. 
From  the  depths  of  his  heart  to  the  heights  of  his  soul, 
he  longed  for  Running  Bird  to  stand  the  test.  Why? 
He  stood  appalled  in  the  presence  of  his  own  revealed 
soul.  It  was  true  that  Running  Bird  was  living  up  to 
the  best  light  that  he  saw  —  and  what  a  man  he  was, 
to  live  it  so  grandly !  —  but  did  that  give  him,  a  priest 
of  the  Supreme  Light,  warrant  to  stand  by  and  clap 
on  the  heathen?  He  put  his  hand  before  his  eyes  as 
if  to  brush  away  the  horror  of  his  fierce  desire.  But 
what  a  man  if  —  ah,  when  he  should  come  to  shake  him- 
self free  of  centuries  of  ignorance,  superstition,  sorcery ! 
The  terrible  sun  climbed  higher  and  higher  —  staring, 
implacable.  The  hot  wind  blew  hotter  and  hotter.  The 
whites  were  seated  under  an  awning  near  the  tipi  of 
Black  Tomahawk,  who  had  donned  his  robes  of  rank  for 
this  occasion,  and  whose  thoughtful,  kindly,  seamed, 
retrospective  countenance,  with  its  shadow  of  gentle 
melancholy,  was  lighted  up  with  approbation.  It  was 
a  wonderfully  attractive  face.  Katharine,  watching 
it  musingly  and  thinking  of  the  pathetic  impossibility 
of  a  white  man's  future  for  such  as  he,  saw  it  suddenly 
change  and  sadden.  Had  Running  Bird  lost?  No,  it 
was  a  wild,  tribally  ambitious,  racially  resentful  and 
savage  young  buck  of  Spotted  Tail's  camp,  who  had 
fainted  just  as  the  sun  made  goal  on  the  meridian.  His 
friends  carried  him  away.  Perhaps  the  incident  re- 
minded Black  Tomahawk  of  his  own  untamable  sons 
who  were  gone.  Others  dropped  out.  Some,  not 
bound  with  thongs,  as  if  they  had  been  ashamed  to 

in 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

show  weakness  before  any  one  of  the  extremists,  had 
faltered;  others,  because  they  had  reached  the  real 
limit  of  their  endurance.  But  the  great  majority 
wheeled  and  turned  blinded,  ghastly  faces  to  the  sun  as 
it  began  the  long,  slow,  tortuous  journey  down  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  shimmering,  shining  sky. 

"  Father ! "  It  was  a  low,  shocked,  intense  exclama- 
tion. Running  Bird  seemed  to  be  leaning  back  with  all 
his  might.  The  skin  stretched  like  rubber  but  the 
thongs  would  not  pull  through.  Blood  trickled  from 
the  gaping  wounds.  Katharine,  unable  to  bear  the 
awful  sight  any  longer,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  There,  now,  child,  don't  make  a  scene.  For  Heav- 
en's sake,  don't  faint  out  here  on  this  God-forsaken 
prairie,  with  its  nightmare  of  no  water.  You  would 
come.  Try  not  to  forget  that  neither  your  mother  nor 
I  favors  these  idiotic  gallivantings  around  the  Reserva- 
tion. It 's  no  place  for  a  woman.  Come,  we  will  go 
back  to  the  grub  box  and  water  jug.  Mr.  Warlick, 
Mr.  Hunt,  and  of  course  Mr.  Raynor,  you  are  ordered 
to  come  to  luncheon  with  us  at  once." 

"  No  place  for  a  woman  —  and  yet  it  was  you  who 
brought  poor  little  mother  and  me  here,"  said  Katharine, 
with  a  faint  smile.  Her  lips  were  still  pale,  but  she 
stood  erect  and  without  support.  "  I  do  not  see  how 
you  can  let  such  things  as  this  be,  father." 

"  I  thank  you,  Major,  and  accept  your  most  generous 
invitation  gladly,"  interrupted  the  inspector,  brushing 
wisps  of  seared  grass  from  his  clothes.  "  I  trust  that 
by  doing  so  I  do  not  deprive  any  one  of  his  full  share 

' 


THE        SUN        DANCE 

of  camp  rations.     Two  unexpected  additions  to  jour 
luncheon  party  — " 

"  Not  at  all,"  assured  the  Major. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  Major,  I  shall  not  eat  now," 
said  Hugh  Hunt. 

"  It  is  enough  to  sicken  any  one  —  yon  brutal  and 
ghastly  exposure.  I  wonder  you  allow  it,  Major,"  said 
Warlick. 

"  I  am  not  the  Government,"  said  Major  Mendenhall, 
briefly. 

"  You  will  doubtless  feel  better  after  you  have  left 
this  crude  spectacle,  my  dear  Mr.  Hunt,"  said  the  in- 
spector, blandly,  whose  dignified  and  portly  inner  man, 
now  so  hot  and  uncomfortable,  yearned  after  the  grub 
box  and  the  water  jug  with  a  mighty  yearning.  "  You 
had  much  better  come  with  us." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Hunt  ? "  asked  Locke,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  All  that  out  there  is  such  infernal  nonsense  —  such  a 
stupendous  mockery  —  such  an  all  around  blunder." 

"  Running  Bird  has  not  eaten  for  two  days.  He  is 
wrong,  but  I  will  watch  with  him,"  said  Hugh  Hunt, 
simply. 

"  And  so  will  I,"  said  Katharine,  unexpectedly. 

"  Indeed  you  won't.  You  will  come  with  me,  and  at 
once,"  ordered  the  Major,  decidedly. 

"  Doubtless  Major  Mendenhall's  clerk  will  bear  you 
company  while  we  are  absent,"  suggested  Warlick, 
suavely. 

"  Doubtless,"    responded    Locke,    cheerfuly    seating 
himself  upon  the  grass  again. 
3  [113] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Don't  be  an  idiot,  Raynor,"  said  Hugh,  falling 
easily  into  Western  slang  on  occasion.  "  Go  and  get 
your  dinner." 

The  Major,  the  Inspector,  and  Katharine  .  were  al- 
ready strolling  toward  the  wagon. 

"  I  don't  lay  claim  to  fasting  for  love  of  that  Phari- 
see of  a  red  monstrosity  out  there,"  said  Locke,  whim- 
sically. "  I  shall  certainly  a  little  later  eat  the  crumbs 
from  Mr.  Inspector's  table.  For  the  present,  I  fast." 

"  What  have  you  ever  done  to  Mr.  Warlick  or  he  to 
you?" 

"  Nothing,"  drawled  Locke.  "  But  what  a  pity  it 
would  be  if  —  just  accidentally,  you  understand  —  I 
should  happen  to  slop  water  on  his  shining  shoes  or  drop 
the  buttered  side  of  a  hardtack  on  his  immaculate  locks. 
Look  to  your  man,  Hunt!  I  believe  from  my  soul  he 
is  fainting." 

But  he  was  n't.  His  strong,  proud  face  was  gray 
with  suffering,  but  he  had  not  cried  out.  He  half 
turned  so  that  he  caught  his  white  brother's  eyes  full 
upon  him.  In  his  own  there  was  no  triumph  over  the 
end  now  so  nearly  achieved  —  neither  was  there  a  weak- 
ening of  the  will.  He  had  boasted  that  he  would  not 
cry  out  —  and  he  had  not.  But  through  all  the  pain 
of  his  effort  —  it  was  very  long  that  his  flesh  held  out, 
oh,  very  long  — •  and  through  all  the  satisfaction  de- 
rived from  the  admiring  comments,  he  could  not  help 
hearing  from  his  friends.  Through  all  the  long,  cruel, 
staring  day,  he  saw  Black  Tomahawk's  fine  melancholy 
face,  proud  of  him,  proud  of  his  strength  and  of  his 

[114] 


THE        SUX        DANCE 

endurance,  wishful  for  the  glory  of  the  past,  but 
shadowed  with  prescience  of  the  passing  of  the  old 
order;  he  saw  Yellow  Owl's  gioating,  triumphant  counte- 
nance, evil  with  the  hate  of  the  new  order,  confident  of  a 
return  of  the  old  supremacy,  clinging  to  the  dream  to 
the  bitter  end  and  willing  to  restore  it  by  any  treachery 
—  if  he  could ;  he  saw  Mad  Wolf's  handsome,  passionate 
face,  in  which  had  lately  come  a  certain  craftiness  of 
expression,  and  whom,  unexplainably,  he  had  come  to 
distrust;  and  then  there  was  his  white  brother,  Hugh 
Hunt,  with  Ills  pale  refined  face,  his  shining  eyes,  his 
wonderful  gift  of  comradeship  —  in  whom  he  read  no 
intolerant  condemnation  of  this  act,  no  heartless  mock- 
ery of  it  and  him,  only  a  man's  admiration  for  another 
man's  strength  of  body  and  will,  and  infinite  sadness 
because  of  the  uselessness  of  it  all.  Because  of  these 
faces,  there  was  no  foreshadowed  triumph  in  Running 
Bird's  eyes  —  only  melancholy. 

Another  man  staggered.  Ah,  but  the  deer  hide  had 
finally  torn  its  way  through  and  freed  him  and  crowned 
him  with  glory  evermore.  His  haggard  face  was  agleam 
with  gratified  vanity  and  —  something  else.  There 
was  the  intoxication  of  the  zealot  there,  too,  and  a  very 
triumph  of  defiance  toward  the  slender  young  fellow  in 
black,  who  stood  there  alone  in  a  world  of  savages,  and 
yet  who  represented  everything  that  the  savage  did  not 
want.  The  victor  left  the  field  a  marked  man  forever- 
more. 

Would  Running  Bird's  vigil  never  end?  He  was  too 
strong  to  faint,  too  proud  to  give  up  —  and  the  sun  was 

[  115  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

very  low.  If  it  sank  before  the  thong  ripped  its  way 
through  his  flesh,  he  would  be  up  with  the  awful  sun 
again  to-morrow.  Camp-fires  were  being  builded  before 
many  tipis.  Somewhere  a  dog  barked  —  then  another 
—  and  another,  until  it  seemed  as  if  every  dog  in  the 
whole  encampment  had  joined  in  a  mournful  howl  to 
speed  the  setting  sun.  The  dreadful  monotony  of  the 
tom-tom  had  not  ceased  all  day.  As  the  sun  reached 
the  far-away  horizon,  still  palpitating  with  the  heat,  the 
chants  of  the  dancers  swelled  louder  and  louder,  until 
the  clamor  of  tom-tom  and  dog  and  fanatic  was  deaf- 
ening. When  at  last  the  sun  sank  away  from  sight, 
Running  Bird's  release  came.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
timed  it  so.  Perhaps  he  had.  He  was  a  man  of  won- 
derful will  power.  The  dancers  glided  away  in  their 
soundless  moccasins,  and  soon  it  was  as  if  the  barbaric 
rite  had  never  been.  Hugh  Hunt  and  Running  Bird 
were  alone  under  the  awning. 

"  You  did  not  cry  out,  my  brother,"  said  the  Mis- 
sionary, gently. 

"  No,"  said  Running  Bird,  listlessly.  "  I  did  not  cry 
out." 


[116] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHY    NOT? 

44  TQ  LEASE,  father,"  said  Katharine,  coaxingly, 
f  like  a  child. 

"  You  might  just  as  well  stop  teasing  now,"  said  the 
Major,  decidedly.  "  You  cannot  go,  and  that  settles 
it  once  and  for  all."  He  tightened  a  tug,  in  curt  dis- 
missal of  Katharine's  importunities. 

"  But  why  ? "  persisted  Katharine,  who  knew  her 
father  rather  well.  "  You  will  be  there.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly be  safer  with  my  own  father  than  flying  around  a 
hostile  Indian  country  alone.  What  could  possibly  hap- 
pen to  me  to-morrow,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

"  Why  is  it  so  necessary  for  you  to  go  gallivanting 
around  at  all?"  asked  the  long-suffering  Major, 
petulantly,  goaded  into  argument  in  spite  of  his  recent 
ultimatum.  "  Why  can't  you  stay  at  home  once  in  a 
while  and  keep  your  mother  company,  like  an  ordinary 
girl?  Don't  you  imagine  she  ever  gets  lonesome  —  and 
deucedly  lonesome,  at  that?  " 

"  What  a  pity  you  did  n't  think  of  that  before  you 
sent  that  peremptory  summons,"  began  Katharine,  de- 
murely, but  she  hastened  to  add,  contritely,  "  don't  pay 
any  attention  to  my  nonsense,  father.  I  am  beginning 

[117] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

to  be  glad  that  we  came  —  almost.  I  shall  be  alto- 
gether glad  if  you  will  only  let  me  go.  I  love  to  ride, 
and  there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  Please !  " 

"  It 's  a  long  thirty  miles,  child,  long  and  lonesome. 
You  '11  get  mighty  tired  of  your  own  company,  I  'm 
thinking." 

"  Why,  I  sha'n't  be  alone.  Are  n't  Locke  Raynor 
and  Rufe  Moses  going  to  drive  the  cattle?  " 

The  Major  buckled  the  reins  together  and  threw  them 
into  the  buggy. 

"  That 's  it.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  —  the  only 
chick  or  child  I  've  got  —  riding  hours  and  hours  across 
a  strange  and  even  dangerous  country,  with  only  a 
couple  of  common  hands  for  company  —  and  them 
strangers.  Try  to  remember  that  the  very  first  time 
you  repeat  that  insane  performance  of  visiting  an  In- 
dian camp  alone,  back  you  go  to  the  States  —  and  with- 
out your  mother,  too." 

"  Mr.  Raynor  does  n't  seem  so  tremendously  common," 
said  Katharine,  smiling,  "  but  if  you  don't  want  me  to 
go  with  them,  why  can't  I  just  jump  in  the  buggy  right 
now  and  go  with  you?  " 

"  Because  I  have  to  stop  at  fifty  —  more  or  less  — 
outlandish  places  on  the  way,  as  you  know.  That  is 
why  I  am  starting  ahead  of  the  herd.  Otherwise,  I 
should  take  both  you  and  your  mother.  Run  along  and 
tell  her  that  I  'm  off  and  to  hurry  along  the  grub 
box." 

"  And  I  may  go  to-morrow?  " 

"  Not  if  there  were  any  power  under  the  sun  to  keep 
[118] 


WHY        NOT? 

you  from  doing  as  you  please.  There  is  not  —  or,  if 
there  is,  I  have  failed  to  find  it  —  so  you  will  go  of 
course.  If  I  had  dreamed  of  the  tremendous  reserve 
force  of  tomboy  you  had  stored  away  in  your  system, 
and  the  amazing  rapidity  with  which  it  would  develop 
under  new  skies,  I  certainly  should  have  considered  much 
more  deliberately  than  I  did  before  sending  that  tele- 
gram." 

"  It  is  n't  all  tomboy,  father,"  said  Katharine,  ear- 
nestly. "  I  can  help  the  boys  drive,  and  besides  — " 

"Well,  besides  what?"  asked  the  Major,  resignedly- 

"  Nothing,"  said  Katharine,  absently.  She  was  think- 
ing about  the  Missionary's  great  gift  of  comradeship 
and  wondering  if  it  could  ever  be  worth  while.  If  it 
should  be  worth  while  for  him,  because  of  the  touch  of 
divinity  in  his  nature,  could  she,  Katharine  Mendenhall, 
ever  be  to  the  women  —  Wa-hca-ska  for  instance  — • 
what  he  was  to  all,  and  especially  to  Running  Bird? 
He  had  said,  "  Make  them  like  you."  Ah,  she  was  far 
too  frivolous  and  selfish.  But  sometimes  opportunities 
came  during  those  long  rides  over  the  Reservation. 
"  It  is  not  all  tomboy,  father,"  she  repeated,  a  little 
wistfully. 

"Well,  I  said  you  could  go,  didn't  I?"  said  the 
Major,  smiling  at  his  absurd  display  of  weakness  in  dis- 
cipline. "  Only  don't  try  any  fancy  stunts  in  riding, 
don't  bother  the  boys,  and  stick  close  to  me  when  the  fun 
begins  to-morrow." 

The  drive  began  early  in  the  morning.  Katharine 
rode  down  to  the  ferry,  happily.  All  her  child's  love 

[119] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

of  riding  had  come  back  to  her,  enhanced  by  the  memory 
of  the  long  years  of  neglect  and  indifference  to  it  that 
lay  between  that  time  and  this.  She  was  surprised  to 
find  how  little  she  had  forgotten  of  the  ways  of  a  horse 
and  saddle  since  she  had  galloped  bare-headed  and  bare- 
legged through  rail-fenced  lanes  lined  with  black- 
berry brambles,  or  through  primeval  forests,  dim  and 
mysterious  with  their  palpitating  suggestions  of  woods 
life.  The  years  between  —  the  years  spent  in  learning 
the  lore  of  books  and  the  ways  of  convention  —  began 
to  seem  to  Katharine  Mendenhall,  in  retrospect,  as  ex- 
ceedingly barren  and  unprofitable  years  —  and  deadly 
uninteresting.  It  was  to-day  that  linked  her  back  to 
those  free,  intensely  livable  days  of  the  rail  fence  and 
the  skulking  wild  cat.  More  than  ten  years  had  passed 
by  since  she  had  climbed  into  a,  saddle,  and  yet  that 
time  —  bare  legs,  freckles  and  all  —  seemed  much,  much 
nearer  to  her,  riding  down  to  the  ferry  in  the  cool  of  the 
early  morning,  than  any  of  those  years  that  lay  be- 
tween. She  almost  resented  having  meanwhile  grown 
up  so  that  she  could  not  kick  off  her  shoes  and  stockings 
as  of  old,  or  shie  her  slatted  sunbonnet  at  a  bluejay. 
So  strong  was  the  power  of  this  association  of  ideas  that 
for  a  moment  her  slim  pretty  feet  actually  burned  in 
their  stout  riding  boots,  and  her  hands  fingered  uncon- 
sciously the  ribbons  that  made  her  wide  rough  hat  secure 
against  the  time  when  the  wind  would  surely  rise. 
There  being  no  saucy  bluejay  available,  she  laughed 
suddenly,  and  let  the  ribbons  be. 

[120] 


WHY        NOT? 

It  was  issue  day  at  the  Lower  Agency.  Major  Men- 
denhall,  who  was  also  in  charge  of  that  place,  had  left 
the  Upper  Agency  the  day  before  to  be  present  when  the 
Government  doled  out  to  those  Indians  their  measure  of 
rations.  Inspector  Warlick  had  gone  down.  Locke 
Raynor,  issue  clerk  at  the  Upper  Agency,  was  to  super- 
intend the  beef  drive,  assisted  by  a  herder,  Rufe  Moses, 
and  accompanied  by  the  Major's  daughter.  The  cattle 
made  the  start  calmly  enough,  with  little  or  no  show 
of  their  range  proclivities  to  obstreperousness.  Rufe 
Moses  proved  himself  to  be  an  old  hand  at  a  drive,  keep- 
ing the  small  herd  compactly  together  with  little  help 
from  the  inexperienced  issue  clerk,  so  that  Locke 
presently  found  himself  chatting  away,  comfortably, 
with  the  Major's  bright-haired  daughter,  on  terms  of 
easy  and  unhurried  intimacy,  such  as  he  had  not  en- 
j  oyed  since  the  long  overland  j  ourney  from  the  stranded 
steamer. 

"  How  you  love  a  horse !  "  he  said,  watching  the  flush 
on  her  face  and  the  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  brought  there 
by  the  exertion  of  a  recent  mad  but  unnecessary  chase 
to  flank  a  wandering  steer. 

"  Don't  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  Pretty  well.  I  'd  rather  stroke  an  oar  or  make  a 
touch-down  than  ride  one,  though." 

"Aren't  you  rather  slim  for  foot-ball?"  she  asked, 
arching  her  brows  in  laughing  criticism. 

"  But   every  bit  muscle,"   he   assured  her,   with 
phasis. 

[121] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  And  so  you  are  a  college  man,"  she  said,  musingly. 
"  I  hardly  expected  to  find  one  so  far  away  from  — 
well,  wrhere  colleges  are,  you  know." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  a  college  man,  Miss 
Mendenhall?  When  have  I  been  so  raw  as  to  give  my- 
self away  in  that  manner  ?  " 

"  Why,  foot-ball,  you  know,"  she  answered,  surprised. 

"  Oh,  they  play  foot-ball  outside  of  a  college  campus, 
Miss  Mendenhall." 

"  And  you  talked  about  stroking  an  oar  — " 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  seemed  oddly  embarrassed,  "  I 
used  to  camp  occasionally  up  in  the  Adirondacks  — " 

"And  learned  to  row  up  the  mountains?  How  inter- 
esting !  "  exclaimed  Katharine,  innocently. 

"  Oh,  there  are  streams  and  lakes,"  he  said,  laughing 
and  coloring  at  her  gentle  sarcasm. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  change  the  subject  at  once,"  said 
Katharine.  "  I  am  sorry  I  have  touched  —  however 
inadvertently  —  upon  —  hallowed  ground.  Only  I 
can't  understand  why  you  wish  to  hide  anything  so  pal- 
pably unhidable,"  she  challenged. 

"  Because  I  am  ashamed  of  it,"  he  said,  honestly  and 
unexpectedly. 

"  Ashamed  of  it !  I  don't  understand.  Won't  you 
please  explain  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  once,  but  rode  on  slowly,  his 
eyes  on  the  toe  of  his  boot,  while  he  idly  thumped  it  with 
his  riding  whip. 

"  Why,"  said  Katharine,  softly,  in  surprise,  "  you 
are  in  earnest,  I  do  believe!  I  thought  you  must  be 


WHY        NOT? 

joking.  I'll  wager  my  glove  against  your  —  cowboy 
kerchief,  that  I  '11  beat  you  to  that  hill  over  there.  Ruf e 
won't  mind  the  temporary  desertion.'* 

"  We  might  cause  the  herd  to  stampede.  Some  other 
time  I  '11  accept  your  challenge,  gladly.  Yes,  I  am 
heartily  ashamed  of  many  things  that  I  did  during  my 
college  days  —  especially  abroad." 

He  spoke  with  boyish  frankness,  eliminating  alto- 
gether the  affected  drawl  that  he  assumed  on  most 
occasions. 

"You  didn't  kill  anybody,  did  you?"  asked  Kath- 
arine, taking  him  so  seriously  that  she  would  not  have 
been  greatly  astonished  just  then  to  hear  that  in  truth 
he  was  a  homicide  hiding  from  justice. 

"  No,  I  never  killed  anybody.  But  I  have  been  a 
trifler,  with  no  motive  in  life  but  to  spend  money  and 
have  what  I  thought  was  a  good  time." 

Her  face,  with  its  tiny,  piquant  freckles,  framed  in 
the  rough  straw  hat  tied  under  the  chin  to  form  a 
poke,  became  vaguely  aloof.  Its  friendliness  froze  to 
polite  interest.  Very  far  away,  indeed,  all  at  once, 
seemed  the  days  of  bare  feet  and  slatted  sunbonnets. 
Men  like  this  belonged  to  the  latter  period  of  her  life, 
»•  and  called  for  the  same  old  convention  and  the  same 
old  surroundings.  It  really  was  n't  respectable  for  her 
to  be  riding  miles  away  from  anywhere  with  a  herd 
boy  and  a  man  who  admitted  that  he  was  a  frivolous 
pleasure-seeker,  with  no  serious  aim  in  life,  for  sole 
company.  In  her  own  gloriously  healthy  university 
life,  she  had  systematically  snubbed  the  triflers. 

[123] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  One's  father  knows  such  a  lot  more  than  one  does 

—  if  one  only  were  not  so  frightfully  conceited,"  she 
thought,  wishing  herself,  with  all  her  heart,  back  within 
the    grimly    stockaded    walls    of    the    Upper    Agency. 
"  And   poor  brave   little   mother.     How   lonesome   she 
must  be  with  a  tomboy  for  a  daughter ! "     Thus  she 
turned  the  tide  of  her  gentle  sarcasm  back  upon  her- 
self.    She  would  return  if  she  were  not  too  proud  to  run 

—  just  because  a  man  whom  she  had  rather  admired 
for  some  seriousness  of  intent  proved  to  be  only  a  friv- 
olous pleasure-seeker.     So  she  merely  lifted  her  chin  a 
trifle  higher  and  said,  "  Indeed !  " 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  some  time.  At  last  Kath- 
arine spoke. 

"  Sometimes  people  stop  leading  that  kind  of  a  life 
and  amount  to  something  after  all." 

"  Yes,  they  do,  sometimes,"  he  agreed,  the  shadow  of 
a  smile  lurking  about  his  mouth. 

"When  are  you  going  to  stop?"  she  demanded. 
But  the  faint  smile  had  told  her  what  the  answer  would 
be. 

"  I  have  already  stopped,"  he  said. 

"When?" 

"  One  week  before  I  started  for  the  Indian  country. 
It  took  me  that  long  to  get  my  appointment." 

"  That  is  not  very  long,  is  it,"  she  asked,  "  to  be 
stopped?  And  was  it  necessary  to  begin  so  far  down? 
It  looks  affected,  and  that  never  lasts." 

"  Don't  you  believe  me?  "  he  asked,  gravely. 

She  intended  to  answer  him  quite  frankly,  "  Not  in 
[124] 


WHY        NOT? 

the  least."  She  turned  to  say  it  and  found  that  he 
was  not  looking  at  her  at  all  but  that  his  fine  gray 
eyes,  with  a  look  in  them  that  was  like  seeing  visions, 
were  lifted  to  the  broken  line  of  the  southern  hills. 
They  had  looked  like  that  in  that  weird  midnight  hour 
when  he  sat  alone  by  the  dying  fire  and  the  wolves 
howled.  All  at  once  she  believed  him.  She  said  in- 
stead : 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you.  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  and  that 's  what  I  am  longing  to  hear,"  he 
confessed,  with  a  little  laugh  of  relief. 

"  And  I  will  go  farther,"  she  continued,  in  a  burst  of 
repentant  generosity.  "  I  will  confess  to  you  that  a 
little  ways  back  I  got  dreadfully  uncomfortable  think- 
ing how  —  unrespectable  it  all  was  for  the  Major's 
daughter  to  be  '  gallivanting  around,'  as  the  Major 
expresses  it,  with  Rufe  Moses  and  a  man  who  had  to 
drive  cattle  because  he  had  trifled  away  his  opportuni- 
ties." 

"  But  I  did  trifle  away  my  birthright  and  I  do  have 
to  issue  cattle  because  of  it,"  said  Locke,  still  serious. 

"  But  you  have  stopped  trifling,"  said  Katharine, 
smiling,  "  and  everything  is  possible  to  a  man  who  has 
stopped.  Now  you  will  mind  your  father  foreverafter 
and  be  happy  forevermore,"  she  concluded,  whimsic- 
ally. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  father  doesn't  know  just  where  I 
am,"  said  Locke,  with  an  odd  little  laugh.  "  There- 
fore, I  shall  experience  some  difficulty  in  minding  him." 

[125] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  How  terrible.     Tell  him  where  you  are  at  once." 
"  But  I  am  under  oath  not  to  tell  him  for  a  year." 
"  Did  he  exact  that  promise  from  you?  " 
"  No.     I  am  afraid  that  I  —  thrust  it  upon  him." 
"  How  perfectly  childish !     Why  have  you  done  such 
a  foolish  thing?  " 

"  My  father  does  not  believe  in  me,  Miss  Mendenhall. 
He  was  right.  I  squandered  his  money  and  I  —  got 
into  scrapes.  Mighty  uncomfortable  ones,  too,  some 
of  them.  He  told  me  that  if  I  had  to  shift  for  myself, 
I  could  not  live  a  month.  I  fell  to  wondering  and  I  am 
here  to  see  if  he  —  knew." 

"  Mr.  Raynor  did  not  help  you  to  this  appointment, 
then?" 

"Mr.  Raynor?  I  —  you  mean — "  he  began  con- 
fusedly. 

"  Why,  your  father,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  my  father  —  to  be  sure,"  he  stammered,  a  faint 
flush  darkening  his  tanned  face.  "  No,  my  father  did 
not  help  me.  As  I  said  before,  I  doubt  if  he  knows  any 
more  than  just  that  I  am  '  out  West '  somewhere." 

"  Think  of  meeting  a  man  with  a  mystery  and  a  his- 
tory away  out  in  the  Indian  country,"  said  Katharine, 
a  new  touch  of  gravity  resting  upon  her.  "  A  man 
who  cannot  —  or  will  not  —  be  known  by  his  father's 
name.  I  do  not  think  you  have  done  anything  very 
bad,  and  I  think  it  is  fine  for  you  to  come  here  to  try 
to  help  work  out  a  future  for  the  Indians.  I  am  sorry 
that  I  said  that  about  beginning  low  down.  I  did  not 
mean  it." 

[126] 


WHY        NOT? 

"  Not  so  very  fine,  Miss  Mendenhall.  I  am  so  much 
more  optimistic  about  my  own  future  than  that  of  our 
wards.  I  am  afraid  I  am  here  to  work  out  my  own  sal- 
vation rather  than  that  uncertain  and  topply  one  of 
Hunt's  red  pets,  and  incidentally  to  be  ready  to  pick  up 
some  of  the  plums  that  the  Commission  occasionally  are 
the  innocent  means  of  scattering  for  the  delectation  of 
the  early  bird." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think,"  said  Katharine,  slowly, 
wistful  eyes  fixed  unseeingly  upon  the  compact  drive, 
"  that  it  is  Mr.  Hunt  who  has  found  the  way.  I  am 
beginning  to  think  that  we  —  the  Government  —  blun- 
der when  we  go  it  alone.  I  think  we  shall  do  well  to 
follow  the  way  of  the  White  Robe." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Locke,  a  little  moodily.  "  It 's 
pretty  visionary,  though.  When  Hunt  is  found  mur- 
dered and  scalped  some  day,  the  White  Robe,  as  you 
call  it,  will  awaken  to  the  fact  that  those  skulking  devils 
are  merely  biding  their  time,  and  that  you  can't  fight 
ingrained  treachery  that  way.  My  father  says  —  some 
day  I  will  tell  you  my  father's  name,  Miss  Mendenhall, 
and  meanwhile  you  will  keep  my  secret,  will  you  not?  — 
my  father  says  that  no  one,  not  even  the  Government, 
dreams  of  the  colossal  burden  Indian  Affairs  will  be  to 
the  nation  for  generations  —  centuries,  perhaps  —  yet 
to  come.  It  is  a  problem  of  such  magnitude  that  we 
have  shrunk  from  the  responsibility  and  have  evaded 
and  shifted  and  postponed  and  pushed  along  and  com- 
promised, until  now  —  I  am  speaking  for  myself  now 
—  until  now  I  see  no  other  way  than  to  force  the  issue 

[127] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

without  a  waste  of  more  time  or  lives  or  prestige. 
Crush  the  dream  once  and  for  all  of  a  rehabilitated  hunt- 
ing ground  on  this  continent.  Do  it  with  arms.  Whip 
the  foolish  dreamers  into  submission  to  the  dominant 
race.  I  can  see  no  other  way." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think  there  is  one  other  way," 
said  Katharine,  softly. 
"  Tell  me  what  it  is." 
"  The  way  of  the  White  Robe." 
"  What  is  that  way,  Miss  Mendenhall?  " 
"  We  can  make  brothers  of  them  and  comrades  and  — 
and  —  fellow  citizens"  said  Katharine.     "  Why  not?  " 


[128] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  MAN  OF  MANY  MEMORIES  SPEAKS  TO   THE  BRULES 

MANY  tipis  reared  their  smoke-blackened  apexes 
into  the  bright  shimmering  atmosphere  as  the 
drivers  climbed  the  last  hill  and  looked  across  the  valley. 
Many  horsemen  were  seen  gathered  at  the  Lower 
Agency.  Many  unmounted  Indians  lounged  about  the 
grounds.  There  were  placid  movement  and  vivid  color. 
It  was  a  great  day  for  the  Brules.  This  was  the  day 
when  their  Great  Father  at  Washington  gave  them,  out 
of  his  abundance,  food  to  eat  and  clothes  to  wear.  It 
was  true  that  the  clothes  were  distributed  hit  or  miss 
and  therefore  never  could  show  the  recipient  to  ad- 
vantage as  having  adopted  the  dress  of  civilization. 
Nevertheless,  fit  or  no  fit,  they  were  white  man's  clothes, 
and  for  that  reason  they  were  fondly  though  errone- 
ously supposed  to  be  an  incentive  toward  living  the  way 
of  the  white  man ;  and  thus  they  were  considered  an 
important  factor  in  hastening  the  day  of  Dakota  regen- 
eration. The  distribution  of  these  conglomerate  mis- 
fits, however,  had  this  merit;  it  was  a  wonderful  salve 
to  ease  the  national  conscience. 

In  descending  the  hill,  several  cattle  in  the  drive  wan- 
dered away  from  the  herd. 

9  [  129  ] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  You  just  ride  steadily  ahead,  Miss  Mendenhall,  be- 
hind the  main  body,  while  Rufe  and  I  round  up  the 
strays,"  said  Locke,  and  spurred  forward. 

There  seemed  to  be  some  sudden  commotion  among 
the  Indians  gathered  at  the  Agency.  A  bunch  of  horse- 
men separated  from  the  main  throng  and  came  toward 
the  drive  on  a  wild  run,  brandishing  rifles  and  emitting 
excited,  unintelligible  yells  as  they  ran. 

"  Father !  "  called  Katharine,  sharply. 

So  it  had  come  at  last.  "  The  very  next  time  you 
go  into  an  Indian  camp  alone,  back  you  go  to  the 
States,"  her  father  had  said.  If  she  had  only  never 
left  the  States  —  the  tranquil  States  where  people  lived 
and  let  live!  Ah,  let  live  —  that  was  all  she  asked  — 
it  was  not  much  —  just  to  be  let  to  live!  She  had  not 
meant  to  come  to  the  Indian  camp  alone.  She  had 
meant  to  ride  in  with  Locke  Raynor  and  Rufe  Moses 
and  triumphantly  to  meet  her  father  there  —  her  father 
who  was  in  authority  over  two  big  reservations  of  sav- 
ages and  was  the  friend  of  all.  Big  Neck  they  called 
him  in  loving  admiration.  Where  was  Big  Neck  now? 
Had  they  turned  on  him  first  and  murdered  him?  Was 
this  the  beginning  of  a  planned  struggle  to  regain  the 
old  liberty  and  to  possess  the  land  free  of  suzerainty? 
She  had  not  meant  to  ride  in  alone.  That  inconsequent 
thought  ran  through  her  mind  like  a  refrain.  "  I 
did  n't  mean  to  come  alone,"  she  half -whispered,  the 
while  she  gave  one  wild,  longing  glance  back  over  the 
hills,  calm  and  peaceful  under  the  September  sky.  Too 
late.  With  a  little  sob,  she  turned  her  horse  to  go  to 

[ISO] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

Locke  Raynor.  Rufe  was  galloping  that  way,  too, 
and  they  three  must  make  their  short  stand  together. 
No  doubt  of  hostile  intent  entered  her  mind.  Every 
shrill  yell  sounded  in  her  startled  ears  like  a  diabolical 
war  whoop.  She  was  conscious  of  a  childish  longing 
to  clap  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  shut  her  eyes  till  the 
horror  of  painted  face  and  flying  feather  and  thunder- 
ing hoof-beat  was  past.  But  she  dared  not. 

"  Oh ! "  she  said  aloud,  in  soft,  shuddering,  lonely 
fear,  as  she  saw  her  two  companions  of  the  drive  start 
forward  at  a  quick  trot  to  meet  the  Indians  alone,  who 
outnumbered  them  many  times.  They  could  not  hope 
to  drive  the  war  party  back  or  to  hold  them  there  or  to 
buy  life.  There  could  be  no  possible  hope  of  anything 
merciful  from  the  yelling,  racing  band  who  bore  down 
upon  them  so  swiftly.  She  wished  the  boys  had  remem- 
bered her  before  they  had  begun  to  ride  so  steadily  for- 
ward to  meet  the  awful  charge.  She  felt  very  small 
and  very  lonesome  sitting  there,  still  and  pale,  waiting 
for  the  end  of  —  everything. 

Locke  Raynor  threw  up  his  hand  in  warning  or  sur- 
render —  she  could  n't  tell  which  —  but  the  thundering 
cavalcade  of  bare-back  riders  paid  not  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  it  or  to  him.  They  swept  on  in  an  ecstasy 
of  joy  in  the  chase.  It  was  then  that  Katharine  be- 
came completely  panic-stricken.  She  turned  and  fled 
in  frantic  fear.  She  had  a  good  horse  and  she  might 
yet  distance  the  fiends.  In  the  midst  of  her  frenzy, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  little  welling  of  gratitude  for 
every  mad  gallop  through  the  blackberry  lanes  of  that 

[131] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

old  time.  It  gave  her  confidence  now,  so  that  gradually, 
as  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  swift  motion  of  her  horse 
and  felt  the  wind  of  her  wild  dash  blowing  against  her 
until  her  hat  fell  back  upon  her  shoulders  and  her  hair 
loosened  into  flying  tangled  strands,  her  courage  came 
back  to  her.  There  was  this  comforting  thought  to 
buoy  her  up  besides:  she  was  on  Running  Bird's  reser- 
vation. This  was  his  home.  The  courtesies  and  chiv- 
alrous protection  which  he  had  afforded  her  and  hers 
on  strange  soil,  surely  he  would  not  withhold  from  them 
on  his  native  heath.  If  only  she  could  maintain  her 
distance  till  he  became  cognizant  of  the  trouble  which 
had  so  suddenly  been  brewed  for  Tahu  Tanka's  daugh- 
ter. He  was  surely  somewhere  near.  All  the  Brules 
would  be  gathered  there  to-day.  Presently  he  would 
know,  and  then  he  would  send  out  runners  to  halt  the 
chase  and  to  call  back  the  murderers.  He  might  even 
come  himself.  That  would  be  better  still.  Running 
Bird  was  a  man  of  influence  among  his  people.  They 
would  hearken  to  him.  And  he  was  Hugh  Hunt's 
friend.  He  would  take  care  of  his  friend's  friends.  If 
only  he  might  know  soon  now!  Here  were  the  hills. 
Suppose  her  horse  should  stumble !  What  was  that  ? 
There  it  was  again.  Shooting!  With  all  her  strength, 
she  rallied  her  failing  senses  and  laid  hold  of  some 
shreds  of  her  courage  which  had  been  torn  to  tatters  at 
the  first  sound  of  a  shot.  But  hope  altogether  fell 
away.  Running  Bird  was  false.  They  were  all  false. 
What  was  it  Locke  Ray  nor  had  said?  "  You  can't 
fight  inherent  treachery  that  way."  Another  shot. 

[132] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

Perhaps  the  next  would  strike  her  down  —  or  the 
one  after  that.  The  strain  of  listening  for  whiz- 
zing bullets  at  last  nerved  her  to  look  back.  The 
Indians  had  scattered  and  were  right  and  left  chas- 
ing the  stampeded  cattle.  Several  quiet  mounds  lay 
upon  the  dusty  plain.  Locke  Raynor  was  coming 
toward  her  on  the  run.  Dazed,  she  waited  for  him. 
When  he  drew  rein  beside  her,  his  face  was  grave 
and  concerned.  The  dust  of  the  stampede  had  settled 
in  a  fine  gray  film  over  his  handsome  features  and  rough 
riding  clothes. 

66  What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  still  uncomprehending. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  ever  forgive 
me  for  deserting  you  like  that?  Just  to  think  —  and 
you  did  not  understand.  It  never  entered  my  thick 
skull  that  you  might  very  naturally  construe  that  fool 
affair  into  something  serious.  Once  before  I  had  heard 
those  crazy  bucks  turned  the  cattle  issue  into  a  royal 
hunt,  stampeding  the  beeves  and  then  shooting  them 
down  like  buffalo ;  so  I  knew  at  once  what  they  were  up 
to  this  time.  I  wanted  to  stop  them.  That  is  why  I 
forgot  you.  It  is  monstrous.  It  must  be  stopped.  It 
shall  be  stopped.  I  was  taken  unawares.  It  shall  not 
occur  again."  He  shut  his  lips  until  only  a  thin  line 
of  determination  was  visible. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  not  to  laugh  at  me,"  said 
Katharine,  such  a  surge  of  relief  flooding  her  face  that 
his  own  became  immediately  gloomy  with  remorse. 
"  Was  Running  Bird  one  of  the  rebels?  " 

"  Running  Bird,  the  sun-dancer?  I  don't  think  so. 
[133] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

I  imagine  he  's  too  busy  nursing  his  wounds.  Other- 
wise, I  do  not  doubt  that  firebrand  would  have  joined 
the  brotherhood  of  butchers." 

"  Do  not  blame  them  too  much,"  said  Katharine, 
softly  and  unexpectedly.  "  I  should  so  much  rather 
they  would  butcher  beasts  than  people,  and  we  have 
taken  their  buffalo  from  them,  you  know.  Is  it  so 
strange  that  they  yearn  for  those  old  days?  They 
were  not  so  very  long  ago." 

As  the  drivers  approached  the  Agency,  the  special 
inspector  came  to  meet  them.  He  was  cool,  well-dressed, 
a  little  supercilious,  despite  the  frown  on  his  forehead. 
As  he  came  forward,  he  brushed  infinitesimal  specks  of 
dust  from  his  coat  sleeve;  but  he  forgot  to  touch  his 
hat.  Perhaps  he  did  not  recognize  proud  Katharine 
Mendenhall  in  this  wind-blown,  crumpled  tomboy  who 
rode  with  the  issue  clerk. 

"  Well,"  said  the  special  inspector. 
"  Well,"  said  the  issue  clerk. 

"  And  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  for  yourself?  " 
"  Concerning  — "  asked  Locke,  indifferently,  and  with 
a  suspicion  of  drawl  in  his  tone. 

"  Since  you  would  feign  such  stupid  ignorance,"  an- 
swered the  inspector,  with  much  stateliness,  "  I  ask  you 
to  kindly  explain  the  meaning  of  this  outrageous 
butchery." 

"  Not  being  the  butcher,  I  find  it  impossible  to  comply 
with  your  courteous  request,"  replied  Locke,  with  un- 
ruffled serenity.  "  Perhaps  you  will  have  the  goodness 
to  explain  ?  " 

[134] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  demanded  the  inspector, 
indignantly. 

"  Nothing,"  responded  Locke,  with  an  insolence  that 
was  not  so  successfully  concealed  but  that  Katharine 
lifted  her  eyes  to  him  in  troubled  protest.  "  I  thought 
perhaps  you  knew ;  that  is  all.  You  were  present  when 
the  deviltry  was  hatched." 

"  Young  man,  do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  "  exclaimed 
the  inspector,  pale  spots  of  anger  showing  in  his 
face. 

"  If  you  are  other  than  Special  Inspector  Warlick, 
sent  out  from  Washington,  no;  but  I  shall  be  happy 
to  know  you,"  finished  Locke,  politely. 

"  I  am  glad  to  learn  how  the  Government's  hirelings 
distribute  the  Government's  property,"  said  the  inspec- 
tor, with  forced  composure.  "  I  am  here  for  that  pur- 
pose. I  ask  you  to  remember  that  that  is  my  business. 
I  am  also  a  witness,  however  unwillingly,  to  extreme  im- 
pertinence on  the  part  of  an  employee  to  —  higher  au- 
thority. I  think  I  have  said  enough.  Doubtless  you 
understand  me." 

"  Doubtless,"  agreed  Locke,  a  dull  red  mantling  his 
cheeks.  "I  am  still  troubled  in  my  mind,  however, 
why,  when  you  were  right  on  the  ground,  you  did  not 
make  use  of  your  —  higher  authority  to  prevent  those 
crazy  bucks  from  tearing  out  to  stampede  the  herd." 

"  You  are  insolent,  sir,"  rej  oined  the  inspector,  the 
very  ecstasy  of  his  rage  holding  him  quiet.  "  To  make 
use  of  your  own  rude  phrasing,  this  not  being  my  drive* 
it  was  none  of  my  business.  I  will  say,  however,  that 

[135] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

I  imagine  Indians,  like  other  men,  are  very  apt  to  do 
what  they  have  been  in  the  habit  of  doing." 

"  Where  is  my  father?  "  interposed  Katharine,  be- 
fore Locke  could  reply.  "  If  it  is  such  a  crime,  why  did 
he  not  prevent  it  ?  " 

"  Your  father,  Miss  Mendenhall,  was  —  unaccount- 
ably absent,"  said  the  inspector,  plainly  hesitating  be- 
fore the  word,  as  if  he  might  have  said  "  conveniently 
absent." 

"  He  meant  to  be  here,"  said  Katharine,  anxiously. 
"  He  has  been  unavoidably  detained.  I  wonder  what 
the  matter  can  be  ?  " 

They  were  moving  slowly  toward  the  warehouse  as 
she  spoke.  Her  companions  remained  silent,  Locke 
stubbornly  refusing  to  carry  the  controversy  farther, 
and  the  inspector  glad  of  the  opportunity  afforded  to 
recover  somewhat  of  the  dignity  which  the  younger  man 
had  provoked  him  into  losing,  and  which  he  was  wont 
to  consider  an  asset  at  all  times.  Presently  Major  Men- 
denhall drove  up,  his  usually  genial  face  perturbed, 
flushed,  and  travel-stained. 

"  What  is  this  I  have  been  hearing  ?  "  he  demanded 
at  once.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  confusion  ? 
Is  it  true  that  my  commands  have  been  again  disobeyed? 
Speak  up,  somebody.  Are  you  all  dumb?  " 

"  I  am  ready  to  report,  Major,"  began  Locke,  when 
the  inspector  interrupted  him. 

"  You  are  late  on  the  ground,  my  dear  Major. 
Doubtless  you  were  unavoidably  detained?  " 

[136] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

Locke  snapped  his  jaws  together  like  a  clam  and 
waited. 

"  Great  guns,  man,  what  would  I  be  doing  here  at 
this  time  of  day  if  I  hadn't  been  detained?  "  cried  the 
Major,  irascibly.  "Why  didn't  somebody  stop  this 
infernal  business  anyway?  Are  you  all  dolts?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  War- 
lick,  with  complacence.  "  Why  was  n't  this  —  infernal 
business  —  stopped  ?  That  is  what  I  said  to  Mr.  Ray- 
nor  here.  If  I  mistake  not,  he  was  in  command  of  the 
•drive.  It  was  for  him  to  maintain  the  proper  decorum. 
But  he  came  tearing  down  the  hills  like  a  madman  or  a 
cowboy,  and  this  naturally  excited  the  Indians.  They 
immediately  broke  bounds  and  were  off  like  the  wind, 
whooping  and  yelling,  and  that  in  turn  excited  the  cattle 
and  they  were  off  with  the  bucks  in  full  chase.  And 
then  came  the  indecent  slashing  and  grabbing  of  the 
carcasses.  Naturally,  I  looked  to  the  one  in  temporary 
authority  to  quash  the  insubordination  and  the  revolting 
butchery  at  once.  To  my  astonishment,  Major,  Mr. 
Raynor  did  nothing.  Nothing,  I  repeat.  Nothing, 
that  is,  but  to  sharpen  his  impertinence  upon  me.  I  ask 
for  his  dismissal  from  the  service." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  could  n't  be  helped,"  said  the  Major,  his 
quick  temper  dying  as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen,  when  he 
perceived  how  seriously  the  inspector  was  taking  the  af- 
fair and  how  seriously  it  might  result  for  the  issue  clerk. 
He  himself  had  blamed  nobody,  and  meant  nothing 
by  his  recent  explosion  of  temper  but  a  vent  for  a 

[137] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

surplusage  of  chagrin  toward  the  accumulation  of  cir- 
cumstances which  had  conspired  to  delay  him  on  the 
road.  "  Nothing  under  heaven  could  stop  those  crazy 
bucks  once  get  them  started.  It  is  a  deplorable  acci- 
dent, but  I  really  see  nothing  that  Raynor  could  have 
done,  under  the  circumstances." 

"  I  am  here  to  testify  that  he  seemed  to  take  such  a 
gross  exhibition  entirely  as  a  matter  of  course.  Doubt- 
less it  is  not  the  first  time  such  a  thing  has  happened. 
It  seemed  strangely  prearranged/'  said  the  inspector^ 
glibly. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  for  Raynor,  anyway,"  explained 
the  Major,  good-naturedly.  "  This  is  his  first  drive;  so 
I  think  we  may  easily  overlook  the  fault,  if  fault  there 
is.  Candidly,  I  don't  see  how  he  could  have  helped  it. 
If  I  had  been  here  —  but  I  was  n't ;  so  what 's  the  use  of 
wasting  breath  on  the  supposition  ?  " 

"  And  besides,  father,"  put  in  Katharine,  composedly, 
"  we  were  not  tearing  down  the  hill  like  madmen.  The 
boys  were  simply  rounding  up  the  strays,  and  I  was  com- 
ing on  behind  with  the  greatest  decorum,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  beg  leave  to  disclaim  any  intent  of  implicating 
Miss  Mendenhall  in  this  atrocious  affair,"  said  the  in- 
spector, suavely. 

"  It  has  happened  before,"  said  the  Major,  begin- 
ning to  get  cross  at  circumstances  again.  "  But  I  told 
the  Brules  that  it  simply  must  not  occur  again,  and  they 
promised  to  conform  to  my  wishes.  I  thought  they 
would  keep  faith  with  me." 

"  Did  n't  it  ever  strike  you,  Ma j  or  Mendenhall,  that 
[138] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

there  must  be  poor  management  somewhere,  or  all  this 
could  not  take  place?  It  has  occurred  before,  you  say; 
it  occurred  to-day  —  it  will  occur  next  time  —  and  in- 
definitely —  all  the  while  strengthening  the  people  in 
their  bloody  instincts.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be 
the  result  of  mismanagement  somewhere." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  and  perhaps  it  is  n't,"  said  the  Major, 
shortly  and  resentfully,  then  and  there  conceiving  a 
hearty  hatred  for  the  special  inspector. 

"  Then  you  would  n't  care  to  dismiss  this  young  man 
from  your  service?"  asked  the  inspector,  a  mask  of 
smiling  inscrutability  settling  down  over  his  counte- 
nance. 

"  Not  without  more  provocation  than  you  allege  in 
your  complaint  of  to-day,"  returned  the  Major,  curtly. 
"  I  shall  immediately,  however,  take  steps  to  settle  it, 
once  and  for  all,  that  the  young  bucks  have  had  their  last 
fling  at  hunting  cattle.  Does  any  one  know  whether 
Hugh  Hunt  is  here  or  not?  " 

"  I  think  he  intended  to  come,"  said  Katharine. 

"  I  saw  him  about  two  hours  ago,"  said  Warlick. 

"  I  am  very  glad.  I  can't  get  along  without  that 
young  fellow  when  it  comes  to  heart  to  heart  talks  with 
the  people.  He  is  the  best  interpreter  I  ever  knew.  He 
speaks  Dakota  far  better  than  the  natives.  It 's  a  fact. 
He  's  a  whole  lot  better  Indian  than  the  Indians.  Come 
with  me  and  I  will  show  you  how  I  am  quashing  future 
demonstrations." 

He  despatched  messengers  to  call  all  the  Indians  to- 
gether. It  did  not  take  them  long  to  mobilize.  They 

[139] 


THE        SPIRIT        TKAIL 

came  slipping  in  from  all  directions  until  the  meeting- 
place  was  a  mass  of  dark,  interested  faces,  shot  with 
bright  flashes  of  green  and  scarlet  and  blue  where  porcu- 
pine quill  and  bead  blazed  the  trail  of  the  trader.  They 
sat  upon  the  ground,  grave  and  attentive.  A  barrel  was 
rolled  into  the  centre  of  the  crowd  and  stood  on  end. 
From  a  near-by  group  rose  an  old  man  with  whom  the 
Missionary  had  been  in  earnest  conversation.  He  was 
so  old  that,  like  White  Flower's  grandmother,  his  hair 
was  snow  white,  and  the  wrinkles  of  his  brooding  face 
were  many  and  deep.  His  frail  body  was  bent  but  his 
step  was  reasonably  firm.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  blanket, 
despite  the  heat  of  the  day,  but  his  scant  white  locks  were 
uncovered.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  was  more  than 
a  hundred  years  old  and  remembered  the  day  when  the 
Teton  Sioux,  after  forty  years  of  prairie  warfare,  finally 
forced  the  Rees  to  seek  new  homes  in  the  North  and  to 
leave  them  in  undisputed  possession  of  the  buffalo 
country.  So,  a  hundred  years  after  the  Chippewas  in 
the  timbered  north  of  Minnesota  drove  out  his  ancestors 
and  made  of  them  nomads,  this  old  man  was  said  to 
remember  that  day  when  they,  in  turn,  gained  sov- 
ereignty over  all  the  fair  buffalo  lands  west  of  the  great 
river.  And  now  another  hundred  years  were  gone  into 
the  dim  Indian  past,  and  the  Sioux  still  held  this 
sovereignty ;  and  the  man  who  remembered  was  still  liv- 
ing, so  that  much  honor  was  his  among  all  the  prairie 
tribes,  and  his  person  was  held  sacred.  Without  assist- 
ance and  with  dignity,  he  walked  slowly  and  thought- 

[140] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

fully  to  the  barrel  and  mounted  it.  The  people  became 
very  still. 

"  My  people,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  word  for  you  from 
our  father,  Tahu  Tanka." 

His  voice  was  husky  with  age  but  it  carried  to  the 
furthermost  confines  of  the  assembled  company.  Be- 
cause his  words  were  always  just  and  wise,  they  were 
ever  listened  to  with  the  most  flattering  attention  and 
seldom,  if  ever,  did  they  fail  to  carry  much  influence  at 
the  council  fires  of  the  Sioux  nation.  But  for  more 
than  the  intrinsic  worth  of  his  counsels  was  he  accorded 
the  most  honor  among  the  tribes,  and  that  was  because 
he  was  the  sole  living  participator  of  the  greatest  glory 
in  the  history  of  the  Dakotas.  So  to-day  when  their 
Agent,  Big  Neck,  called  them  together  in  council 
extraordinary  and  appointed  White  Shield  to  speak  his 
will  to  the  people,  they  listened  to  him.  Therefore,  he 
needed  no  strong  voice. 

"  Tahu  Tanka  is  angry  with  you.  You  run  the  cat- 
tle. Then  you  cut  out  their  entrails  and  grab  for  them 
and  are  very  greedy.  Sometimes  you  cut  them  out 
while  they  still  are  living  and  strong.  That  is  not  the 
white  man's  way,  my  children.  Tahu  Tanka  said  to 
me  this  to  say  to  you.  Another  time  the  young  men 
may  not  run  the  cattle.  They  are  not  buffalo.  It  is 
not  the  hunt.  You  may  not  any  of  you  cut  into  any 
cattle  until  they  are  properly  dead.  When  this  is  so, 
then  you  may  take  your  portion  of  the  beef  for  the 
jerking.  Tahu  Tanka  says  this  is  so.  I  am  an  old 

[141] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

man.  It  is  nothing  to  me.  I  shall  not  eat  of  any  meat 
very  long  now.  It  is  many  years  since  I  have  followed 
the  hunt.  I  am  an  old  man.  It  is  nothing  to  me. 
But  the  young  men  will  listen.  They  will  remember 
what  I  say  to  them." 

There  was  a  slight  disturbance  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  seated  multitude  where  a  number  of  the  younger 
men  had  ridden  up  while  old  White  Shield  was  speak- 
ing. It  was  peremptorily  silenced  by  some  of  the  older 
ones  and  the  monotonous  but  impelling  voice  went  on. 

"  Many  of  us  remember  when  there  was  no  one  to  say 
to  us,  You  shall  —  You  shall  not.  But  that  was  very- 
long  ago.  That  is  not  to-day.  Our  Great  Father  at 
Washington  has  promised  that  there  shall  never  be  any 
famine  any  more.  When  the  buffalo  are  all  gone,  he 
will  give  us  beef.  He  keeps  his  promises.  He  gives  us 
beef  now  because  the  buffalo  are  very  scarce  and  we 
would  be  hungry.  He  does  not  forget  us.  He  gives 
us  flour  and  all  to  eat  that  we  need.  We  are  never 
hungry  any  more.  It  is  good  not  to  be  hungry.  Our 
Great  Father  is  very  powerful.  He  can  feed  all  the 
Indian  nations  and  he  has  promised  that  we  shall  never 
be  hungry.  Tahu  Tanka  says  our  Great  Father  will 
always  take  care  of  us.  This  is  because  we  gave  him 
all  our  land  except  the  Great  Reservation,  which  is  never 
to  be  taken  from  us.  He  has  promised.  But  Tahu 
Tanka  says  that  you  may  not  hunt  the  cattle  any  more 
and  you  may  not  butcher  them  alive.  That  is  not  the 
Great  Father's  way.  He  gives  us  food,  not  a  hunting 
frolic.  That  is  Tahu  Tanka's  word.  That  is  cruel. 

[142] 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

And  because  the  cattle  are  his,  we  must  take  the  gift 
in  his  way.  And  is  not  that  right?  That  is  as  it 
should  be.  Tahu  Tanka  said  to  me  to  say  to  you,  my 
children,  that  if  you  do  these  things  another  time,  an- 
other time  there  will  be  no  beef  on  issue  day.  I  am  an 
old  man.  I  do  not  care.  It  is  nothing  to  me.  But  the 
young  men  will  listen  — " 

From  the  ranks  of  the  riders  on  the  outskirts  came 
a  ribald  shout  and  then  a  pistol  shot.  A  look  of 
questioning  surprise  came  into  the  old  man's  dreamy, 
furrowed  face  for  a  moment  and  he  brushed  a  stray 
lock  of  white  hair  from  his  forehead.  But  his  expres- 
sion changed  quickly  and  gleamed  with  a  haughty  de- 
fiance of  all  his  enemies,  while  his  eyes  flashed  forth  the 
fires  of  this  defiance.  His  bent  figure  straightened  till 
it  took  on  the  likeness  of  the  youth  of  a  Dakota  brave 
who  had  hunted  well,  who  had  fought  well,  who  was 
dying  well.  He  was  a  very  old  man  and  the  minds  of 
the  old  dwell  much  in  the  past.  Perhaps,  in  this  his 
hour  of  passing,  he  was  remembering  the  enemies  of  his 
young  manhood  so  that  his  body  unconsciously  assumed 
the  likeness  of  that  far-away  time.  The  look  of 
strange,  intense,  deadly  defiance  was  the  last  look  his 
people  saw.  When  he  sank  down  into  the  arms  of  the 
Missionary  who,  seeing,  had  sprung  forward  to  catch 
him  as  the  barrel  tottered  under  his  falling  weight,  the 
old  thoughtful,  resigned,  reminiscent  expression  had 
come  back  to  the  deeply  seamed  old  face.  But  he  was 
dead  then. 

When  the  stunned  listeners  realized  that  White  Shield 
[143] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

had  been  shot  down  wantonly,  they  were  on  their  feet 
to  a  man.  They  heard  the  thunder  of  fleeing  hoofs  and 
the  thunder  of  yet  others  in  pursuit  as  the  grandson  of 
White  Shield,  several  times  removed,  leaped  astride  a 
quickly  proffered  pony  and  raced  madly  after  the 
murderer,  firing  incessantly  as  he  ran.  As  he  dashed 
through  the  thinned  outer  ranks,  someone,  presumably 
a  friend  of  the  fleeing  man,  shot  at  him  point  blank  but 
he  kept  on  with  stoical  disregard  of  the  bullet  that  tore 
through  his  shoulder.  He  was  the  old  man's  sole  sur- 
viving descendant.  The  murderer  must  die  the  death  by 
his  hand  —  none  other's.  Before  the  man  who  was 
endeavoring  to  protect  the  retreat  of  the  murderer 
could  fire  again,  he  himself  fell,  a  bullet  through  his 
heart.  The  wildest  confusion  reigned.  Men  scarcely 
knew  who  might  show  themselves  enemies.  M 
weapons  were  drawn.  Unearthly  cries  rent  the  still  air 
—  cries  of  woe,  of  vengeance,  of  threat,  of  war,  min^l<  J 
shrilly  with  the  wailing  of  women.  A  general  shooting 
melee  was  imminent.  Perhaps  worse.  There  were  those 
who  did  not  know  by  whose  hand  White  Shield  had 
fallen.  There  were  many  who  thought  that  their  great 
enemy,  the  white  man,  had  killed  him.  Who  else,  then  ? 
Were  not  all  the  rest  of  them  Brules?  Would  they 
kill  the  best  beloved  of  them  all?  The  Agent,  helpless 
in  this  unlooked-for  crisis,  was  at  that  moment  in  graver 
danger  than  he  knew.  So  was  the  yellow-haired  ^irl  by 
his  side.  So  were  Locke  Raynor  and  the  special  in- 
spector there  to  see  how  Major  Mendenhall  would 
enforce  his  new  issue  law.  But  they  were  none  of  them 

[144] 


My  people,*'  hr  began,  M§Uj   \mir  hands.      Put  away  your 
weapons'1 


MAN    OF    MANY    MEMORIES 

in  half  so  grave  a  danger  as  was  Hugh  Hunt  when, 
warned  by  the  mutterings  and  evil  glances  of  all  around 
him,  he  gently  relinquished  his  frail  burden  and  sprang 
upon  the  barrel  where  so  lately  another  had  talked  to 
this  same  people. 

"  I  thank  God  for  Hugh  Hunt,"  said  the  Agent,  with 
almost  a  sob  of  relief. 

"  Not  too  soon,"  said  the  inspector,  anxiously. 
"  They  will  murder  him.  Look  at  their  faces !  The 
fool's  life  is  n't  worth  a  picayune.  For  God's  sake, 
Major,  send  for  the  troops  and  meanwhile  let  us  retire 
to  the  Agency ! " 

But  the  Agent  was  watching  Hugh  Hunt  and  he  did 
not  hear  the  warning.  The  Missionary  did  not  speak 
at  once.  He  stood  quiet  for  a  moment,  alone  in  a 
multitude  of  unfriendly  faces,  as  if  saying  to  them: 
"  You  are  my  people.  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  My  people,"  he  began,  in  perfect  Dakota  and  in  a 
clear,  firm,  authoritative  voice  which  yet  thrilled  with  a 
minor  note  of  compassion  for  the  life  so  ruthlessly  put 
out,  "  stay  your  hands.  Put  away  your  weapons.  He 
who  murdered  your  grand  old  man  is  an  Indian,  like 
you.  Will  you  turn  on  one  another  because,  unknow- 
ingly, you  have  harbored  one  among  you  who  was  not 
worthy?  You  cry  for  vengeance.  My  children, 
Black  Bull  has  ridden  out  on  a  very  fleet  horse  in  pursuit 
of  the  treacherous  ingrate.  If  Wakantanka  *  ever 
gives  it  into  the  hands  of  his  children  to  work  vengeance 
upon  their  enemies,  is  it  not  right  that  the  murdered 
*  Great  Holy  One. 

10  [  145  ] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

man's  only  relative  should  be  the  one  chosen?  I  say,  if 
Wakantanka  ever  gives  us  the  right  of  personal  venge- 
ance. Soon  I  shall  show  you  a  better  way  —  a  far 
better  way.  But  now  it  is  right  that  Black  Bull  should 
bring  the  murderer  back  so  that  he  .shall  not  transgress 
again.  Black  Bull  will  bring  him  back.  You  need  not 
be  afraid.  When  he  returns,  shall  he  find  his  grand- 
father still  lying  down  there  upon  the  ground,  neglected 
and  forgotten,  his  white  hair  dishonored  by  his  own 
people?  Put  your  ears  to  the  earth.  Do  you  hear 
the  running  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  returning?  Haste 
you,  then,  and  bear  this  body  where  it  may  be  prepared 
for  the  burial  fitting  a  man  so  old,  so  wise,  so  loved, 
and  so  honored  by  all  the  tribes,  so  that  when  his  kins- 
man returns,  he  may  find  you  mourning  for  the  great  soul 
who  has  gone.  Where  are  your  women  ?  Come ! 
Wakantanka  has  called  White  Shield  to  a  far  happier 
hunting  ground  than  he  ever  knew  on  earth.  His  soul 
has  gone.  But  his  body  has  need  of  the  care  of  his 
friends.  Come  then  and  mourn  for  this  man  of  many 
memories ! " 

The  appeal  went  home.  But  long  before  Black  Bull 
returned  alone,  vengeance  still  unsatisfied,  it  was  known 
that  Mad  Wolf  it  was  who  had  murdered  the  wise  old 
man  and  that  he  was  drunk  when  he  did  it. 

All  night  long,  the  women  wailed  the  death  chant  over 
the  body  of  the  man  of  many  memories. 


[146] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    DORSET    GANG 

CORROBORATION  of  the  rumor  that  Mad  Wolf 
was  drunk  when  he  murdered  the  aged  White 
Shield  was  given  by  members  of  Running  Bird's  own 
band,  from  fellowship  with  which  the  fugitive  must 
henceforth  be  cut  off,  and  accounted  a  renegade  and  a 
bad  man.  To  deliver  him,  if  caught,  into  the  hands 
of  the  murdered  man's  only  surviving  relative  or  even 
to  the  justice  of  the  hated  military  —  who  would  soon 
be  scouring  the  country  in  search  —  would  be  considered 
a  point  of  honor  by  the  rest  of  the  band.  Mad  Wolf 
was  drunk.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  But  he  had 
no  right  to  be  drunk.  From  whence,  then,  did  he  pos- 
sess himself  of  the  wherewithal  to  be  so?  Who  was 
guilty  of  smuggling  the  contraband  stuff  into  the  In- 
dian country? 

"  I  think  you  will  have  to  tell  me,  Major,"  said  In- 
spector Warlick,  in  a  voice  whose  smooth  quietness  was 
some  way  ominous.  "  Several  Indians  say,  through  this 
preacher  interpreter,  that  the  liquor  was  procured  from 
some  people  who  are  conducting  a  road-house  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  That  is  your  own  domain,  Major. 
I  think  I  should  like  to  know  something  about  these  most 
interesting  road-house  people." 

[147] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Well,  then  damn  'em,  and  the  sooner  the  better," 
replied  Major  Mendenhall,  with  heat.  "  If  you  want 
to  know  any  more,  you  '11  have  to  go  below  and  watch 
'em  sizzle  when  I  'm  through  with  them." 

"  Very  forcible  but  hardly  to  the  point,"  said  the  In- 
spector. "  I  think  I  shall  have  to  know,  my  dear  Major, 
everything  that  you  know  about  these  keepers  of  a 
mysterious  stage-house." 

"  And  I  wish  you  well  of  the  knowledge ! "  exploded 
the  sorely  exasperated  Agent.  "  Precious  little  good  it 
seems  to  have  done  me.  Some  time  ago,  I  had  occasion 
to  run  three  men  off  the  Reservation  for  selling  whiskey 
to  the  Indians.  They  came  back  empty-handed.  They 
made  promises.  I  believed  them.  Wherein  I  was  a 
consummate  fool.  They  asked  and  obtained  permission 
to  operate  the  road-house  at  the  Crossing." 

"  It  comes  to  my  mind,"  said  Mr.  Warlick,  with  a  dis- 
agreeable smile,  "  that  an  isolated  road-house,  on  a 
lonesome  trail  through  the  broken  country  of  American 
Creek,  might  present  some  suggestive  possibilities  to  the 
imagination  of  an  Indian  Agent.  Doubtless  I  am  mis- 
taken. Nevertheless  — " 

"  If  I  read  my  commission  aright,"  interrupted  the 
Major,  bluntly,  "  I  am  here  to  deal  with  facts  not 
fancies.  The  service  recognizes  no  imagination.  Now 
that  I  have  facts  to  grapple  with,  why,  I  grapple,  that 's 
all.  Where  is  Locke  Raynor?  This  day  sees  him  and 
me  at  the  Crossing." 

"  Not  you,  Major.  There  are  some  pressing  matters 
of  business  that  I  should  very  much  like  to  discuss  with 

[148] 


THE        DORSEY        GANG 

you  at  once.  Send  this  Raynor  alone.  He  seems  a 
husky  fellow.  Or  give  him  attendance  if  you  deem  it 
necessary.  I  confess  to  an  ignorance  of  how  your  canny 
inn-keepers  will  receive  a  notice  of  abdication.  This 
seems  a  bloodthirsty  land.  But  you  remain.  I  want 
a  word  with  you." 

"  To  hell  with  your  importance  and  your  imperti- 
nence," was  in  Major  Mendenhall's  mind  to  say,  but  he 
thought  better  of  it,  for  the  time  being,  at  least,  a»d 
with  a  short,  "  So  be  it,"  he  turned  and  walked  away  to 
find  Locke  Raynor,  and  to  confer  upon  him  authority 
to  rid  the  Reservation  of  the  vicious  interlopers. 

"  Let  me  go  alone,"  was  Locke's  immediate  request 
when  the  situation  was  explained  to  him.  "  If  they  re- 
fuse to  obey  your  orders,  then  it  is  time  enough  to  send 
men  to  enforce  them.  But  let  me  bear  the  message 
alone." 

"  Why  are  you  so  enamored  of  your  own  company  ?  " 
asked  the  Major,  curiously.  "  Do  you  know  that  these 
Dorseys  have  the  reputation  of  being  pretty  handy  with 
guns?" 

"  I  have  so  understood,"  said  Locke. 

"  And  you  still  wish  to  go  alone  ?  " 

"  If  you  please." 

"  I  am  perfectly  willing,  if  you  will  give  me  your 
word  that  there  will  be  no  fighting  or  physical  coercion," 
said  Major  Mendenhall,  surveying  his  clerk's  lithe  body 
doubtfully. 

"  You  have  it  —  unless  I  myself  am  coerced,"  re- 
turned  Locke,  with  a  slow,  enigmatical  smile. 

[149] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  I  am  not  one  of  those  against  whom  the  edict  of 
6  keep  off  '  has  gone  forth,  am  I?  "  asked  Hugh  Hunt, 
suddenly.  He  had  been  standing  near  but  had  hitherto 
remained  silent.  "  I  never  carry  a  gun.  My  muscles 
are  flabby  from  disuse.  How  then,  should  I  dare  dream 
of  sharing  with  Mr.  Raynor  any  of  the  glory  of  point- 
ing out  the  boundary  line  to  these  doughty  Dorseys? 
I  desire  to  go  for  company  alone.  If  he  will  have  me, 
I  promise  Major  Mendenhall  that  I  shall  not  aid  or  abet 
him  in  any  rash  show  of  immediate  violence.'* 

"  Are  you  really  indefatigable  ?  "  asked  Locke,  in 
wonder.  "  After  that  timely  speech  to  your  dusky, 
troublesome  friends,  followed  by  those  hours  of  stren- 
uous mourning  with  them,  I  should  think  a  little  rest  and 
an  Agency  bed  would  present  an  irresistible  appeal  to 
you.  Are  you  never  weary?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Missionary,  slowly,  "  I 
am  often  very  weary."  And  Major  Mendenhall  and 
Locke  Raynor,  looking  at  the  drawn  face,  knew  that  it 
was  so,  and  that  it  was  days  like  this  one  just  passing 
that  told,  and  that  set  the  sensitive  soul  of  him  a-quiver 
in  the  telling.  "  But  it  is  not  very  far  to  the  Cross- 
ing," continued  Hugh,  recovering  himself  with  a  win- 
ning smile,  "  and  I  should  like  to  go  —  if  you  will  have 
me." 

"  And  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  your 
companionship,"  agreed  Locke,  heartily.  And  so  it 
was  arranged  that  the  two  should  go  together  to  the 
road-house  with  Major  Mendenhall's  order  of  evacua- 
tion* 

[150] 


THE        DORSET        GANG 

"  You  won't  fight,  will  you?  "  asked  Katharine,  slip- 
ping between  the  horses  with  a  hand  for  each  of  the 
men. 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Locke,  unconscious  of 
the  number  of  the  pronoun  he  used  so  thoroughly  was 
he  imbued  with  the  notion  that  the  Missionary  would 
not  fight  under  any  circumstances. 

"  Which  means  that  you  will,"  she  half-whispered. 
"  Mr.  Hunt,  won't  you  —  just  this  once  —  please  carry 
a  gun  ?  I  '11  get  you  father's.  I  know  how  you  feel 
about  your  Indians  —  but  the  Dorseys  are  not  Indians." 
She  turned,  but  he  stayed  her  with  a  gentle  pressure, 
shaking  his  head  with  an  inscrutable  but  kindly  smile. 

"  Don't  worry  about  us,  Miss  Mendenhall,"  said 
Locke,  his  heart  stirred  by  the  fine  sincerity  of  her  solici- 
tude. "  We  shall  return  to-morrow.  You  have  my 
word." 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  the  two  young  men  drew 
rein  before  the  same  unhappy-looking  way-house  where 
they  had  once  sought  rest  and  refreshment  —  obtaining 
neither,  even  as  neither  would  be  granted  them  this  second 
time  of  their  visitation.  It  had  been  a  hard,  full  day 
for  Locke  Raynor.  Harking  back,  momentarily,  to  the 
start  from  Big  Bend  in  the  cool  hush  of  the  early  morn- 
ing, that  time  seemed  very  far  away  in  the  past. 
Truly,  events  moved  rapidly  in  the  Indian  country. 
One  must  be  up  and  doing  to  keep  pace  with  the  march. 
He  was-  grateful  to  his  alma  mater  for  his  splendid 
physique.  There  was  little  danger  of  the  strain  of 
these  busy  days  pulling  him  down  to  any  appreciable 

[151] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

extent.  Rather  did  he  already  feel  himself  toughened 
and  enlivened  by  the  compelling  stress  of  his  new  environ- 
ment. 

They  dismounted,  tied  their  horses  to  runty  scrub 
•oaks,  and  pushed  open  the  sagging  door.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  one  within. 

"Hello,  there!  Anybody  around?"  cried  Locke,  as 
he  strode  toward  the  door  leading  into  the  rear  room. 

"Hello,  yourself!  What's  all  the  racket  about?" 
answered  a  somewhat  querulous  voice,  and  Dorsey,  the 
elder,  opened  the  door  and  lounged  in.  "  Oh,  it 's  you, 
is  it?"  he  added,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  voice. 
"  Think  you  '11  want  anything  to  eat  this  time,  now  that 
you  *ve  shook  the  women  folks?  "  A  jocular  note  had 
crept  into  his  tones,  albeit  his  pale  eyes  were  watchfully 
on  the  defensive. 

"You  need  n't  bother  about  supper,"  said  Locke. 
"  We  had  a  bite  in  our  saddle  bags.  Is  Pete  here  ?  " 

"  Not  far  away,  I  reckon.  He  was  here  a  minute 
-ago." 

"  He  always  seems  to  be  pretty  near,"  said  Locke, 
meaningly.  "  Such  filial  devotion  is  touching,  to  say 
the  least.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  one  Joe  Hilary  is  in 
your  employ  in  the  capacity  of  cook?  " 

"  You  are  not  mistaken,"  said  the  elder  Dorsey,  with 
a  fine  unconcern. 

"  Will  you  call  your  son  and  this  Joe  Hilary  ?  " 

"  Sure.  Just  make  yourselves  to  home,  both  of  ye. 
Have  a  chair,  Mr.  Hunt.  It 's  wobbly  in  the  legs  but 
it  won't  break  down.  It  ain't  scarcely  been  set  in  since 

[152] 


THE         DORSET         GANG 

that  piece  of  fine  imported  china  belongin'  to  the  Major 
was  here  that  time  you  all  stopped  to  see  if  you  could  n't 
scare  up  a  jug  o'  whiske}r  for  the  crowd.  Right  sorry 
I  could  n't  accommodate  you  I  was,  too." 

He  stopped  talking  long  enough  to  laugh  heartily  at 
his  own  joke,  and  then  sauntered  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  Pete!  Hello  there,  Pete!"  he  called,  in  sten- 
torian tones.  "  Company  to  see  you !  Hurry  along, 
can't  you?  Leave  that  wall-eyed  sawbones  to  his  own 
dee-vices  for  a  while  and  hurry  in!  Drop  your  apron, 
Joe,"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  voice.  "  These  gentle- 
men ain't  a-wantin'  no  sepper.  They  're  a-wantin'  your 
company  instead.  So  come  in  and  make  your  purtiest 
Sunday  School  bow,  'cause  the  preacher  's  here.  He 
wants  to  know  how  is  your  soul  —  not  how  is  your  stum- 
mick."  He  winked  broadly  at  his  unwelcome  guests, 
tipped  his  chair  against  the  wall,  and  proceeded  to  en- 
joy a  smoke  in  a  leisurely  appreciative  manner. 

Joe  Hilary  came  slipping  in,  wiping  floury  hands  on 
the  apron  which  he  had  failed  to  discard.  He  was  an 
under-sized,  youngish  looking  man  with  a  shifting  eye 
and  an  apologetic  smile.  Locke  surveyed  him  with  a 
quiet  contempt.  If  there  should  be  a  fight,  count  out 
the  cook.  When  Peter  Dorsey's  surly  face  and  gigantic 
frame  appeared,  however,  he  could  not  but  fairly  ac- 
knowledge that  here  was  an  adversary  on  whom  he 
would  do  well  to  keep  an  eye. 

"  Well,  what 's  wanted?  "  demanded  Pete,  gruffly. 

66  You  are,"  replied  Locke,  promptly.  He  had  re- 
mained standing.  He  was  not  so  tall  nor  so  burly  as 

[153] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Pete  but  he  was  not  afraid.  He  only  wanted  to  be 
ready.  "  You  are  wanted  to  leave  this  Reservation  at 
once  in  company  with  your  father,  Philip  Dorsey,  and 
Joe  Hilary,  your  alleged  cook  —  and  you  are  especially 
requested  not  to  return.  You  comprehend  that  last 
statement?  You  are  never  to  come  back." 

"You  don't  say!"  ejaculated  Philip,  in  well  simu- 
lated surprise. 

"  Not  by  a  damned  sight  do  we  leave  this  Reserva- 
tion," said  the  loud-mouthed  son,  explosively. 

"  My  land  alive,  on  what  charge  ?  "  appealed  Joe 
Hilary,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  His  voice  was  high 
and  womanish. 

"  On  the  specific  charge  of  again  —  mind  you,  again 
—  selling  liquor  to  the  Indians,"  said  Locke.  "  If  you 
are  not  off  the  Reservation  in  the  morning,  Major  Men- 
denhall  will  send  a  squad  of  United  States  soldiers  to 
take  you  all  into  custody ;  and  I  imagine  things  will  not 
be  quite  so  easy  with  you  when  Uncle  Sam  takes  hold. 
He  is  not  the  lenient  taskmaster  that  Major  Mendenhall 
is.  You  will  find  him  different.  I  'm  thinking  you 
will  do  well  to  heed  the  Agent  this  time." 

"  Eat  your  mush !  "  interrupted  Pete,  contemptuously. 
"  You  're  a-wastin'  a  lot  of  good  time,  and  mine 's 
valuable,  if  yours  ain't.  Stick  to  plain  language,  Mr. 
Tin  Soldier,  and  you  and  me  '11  get  along  better." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  agreed  Locke,  a  twinkle  of  fun 
in  his  eyes.  "  Here  goes,  then,  for  plain  language 
'twixt  thee  and  me,  Peter  Dorsey,  now,  and  f orevermore." 
His  voice  suddenly  became  crisp  and  stern.  "  Get  off 

[154] 


THE         DORSET         GANG 

the  Reservation  to-night!  Take  your  hypocrite  of  a 
father  and  your  coward  of  a  cook  and  your  dirty  traps 
and  get!  Cross  the  border  to-night!  To-night  I" 

"  I  guess  not !  "  raged  Pete.  "  You  're  mighty  free 
with  your  orders.  There  ain't  a  drop  of  whiskey  in 
this  house  or  on  these  premises,  and  there  ain't  been  since 
we  took  to  runnin'  a  road-house.  You  find  your  whiskey 
before  you  get  so  blamed  free  with  your  gab.  Bring  on 
your  proofs  and  go  a  little  easy  on  your  words  while 
you  're  a-doin'  it.  I  might  n't  be  very  tender  with  you 
if  you  slop  over  too  much." 

"  And  don't  forget  that  we  are  American  citizens  try- 
ing to  earn  an  honest  living  and  are  such  until  proved 
otherwise,"  put  in  the  elder  Dorsey,  gently  blowing 
rings  of  blue  smoke  toward  the  low,  blackened  ceiling. 

"  That  is  only  fair,"  said  Locke,  quietly,  after  a 
moment  of  thought.  "  I  imagine  the  Government  won't 
waste  much  time  to-morrow  looking  up  further  proof 
than  that  furnished  by  those  bucks  who  know  where 
Mad  Wolf  got  his«  *  fire-water '  and  who  to-day  are 
mourning  very  bitterly  the  foul  murder  of  White  Shield. 
All  the  Brules  are  mourning  to-day.  But  I  am  willing 
to  leave  you  in  possession  until  then,  if  I  fail  in  my 
quest.  I  think  I  can  convince  you  this  evening  that 
you  are  as  guilty  as  hell.  First,  you  have  no  objection 
to  my  searching  the  premises,  of  course?  I  am  a  duly 
authorized  officer  acting  under  orders." 

"  Go  ahead  —  but  it 's  an  outrage  just  the  same," 
stormed  Peter,  who  did  not  flinch  at  this  first  intimation 
of  the  murder  that  had  been  done.  Joe  Hilary's  face, 

[155] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIE 

however,  was  overspread  with  a  sickly  pallor ;  but  Locke 
was  not  looking  at  Joe  Hilary.  "  I  suppose  you  won't 
be  convinced  of  our  innocence  any  other  way,"  con- 
tinued Peter,  "  so  go  ahead  and  be  quick  about  it  and 
don't  slight  the  corners  or  between  the  mattresses  be- 
cause you  won't  get  in  again  in  a  hurry.  You  'd  bet- 
ter be  thorough  while  you  've  got  the  chance." 

"  Will  you  promise  to  go  at  once  without  any  more 
trouble  if  I  find  anything?  " 

"  Sure,"  agreed  Pete,  derisively. 

"  Will  you  come?  "  said  Locke  to  the  Missionary. 

Hugh  Hunt  arose  at  once  and  the  two  proceeded  to 
make  a  thorough  and  systematic  search  of  that  room, 
of  the  kitchen,  and  of  the  tiny  attic,  climbing  a  shaky 
and  impossible-looking  ladder  for  the  latter  purpose. 
They  went  outside  and  searched  the  sod  barn,  prodding 
every  inch  of  hay  in  the  rude  loft  and  the  straw  bed- 
ding strewn  on  the  dirt  floor  for  the  horses.  They  over- 
looked no  conceivable  place,  within  or  without,  within 
a  reasonable  radius.  And  yet,  what  a  crooked  creek  was 
American  Creek,  and  between  what  innumerable  broken 
hills  and  through  how  many  virgin  thickets  it  wound 
its  tortuous  way  to  the  river!  There  might  be  an  il- 
licit wine  cellar  in  any  one  of  a  thousand  secluded  spots 
in  the  valley.  But  if  it  was  so,  must  there  not  be  some 
little  hint  of  it  somewhere  —  an  empty  bottle,  a  torn 
label,  a  tell-tale  odor? 

"  I  see  nothing  left  but  the  testimony  of  those  bucks 
of  Running  Bird's,"  said  Locke,  keenly  disappointed, 
as  they  walked  back  to  the  house,  which  was  set  back 

[156] 


THE        DORSEY        GANG 

against  a  hill  that  sloped  down  to  the  creek.  The  hill 
had  been  dug  out  a  little  and  formed  the  north  wall  of 
the  house. 

All  during  the  investigation,  the  road-house  keepers 
had  remained  unconcernedly  in  the  sitting-room;  but 
Peter  had  strolled  to  the  open  door  while  the  search  was 
in  progress  outside. 

"  Find  anything?  "  asked  Philip  Dorsey,  with  a  fine 
assumption  of  indifference. 

"  Nothing  —  yet,"  replied  Locke,  shortly. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Peter,  harshly,  "  make  yourself 
scarce,  will  you?  " 

"  Presently,"  responded  Locke,  dreamily. 

The  Missionary  glanced  at  him  quickly.  Something 
in  the  tone  of  his  voice  bespoke  a  new  thought.  Locke 
sauntered  carelessly  over  to  the  north  wall  and  put  his 
hand  on  a  board  which  was  nailed  tightly  to  the  wall, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  merely  strengthening  a  de- 
fective place.  Stooping  suddenly,  he  snatched  up  a 
hatchet  which  lay  on  the  floor  and  began  prying  off 
the  plank. 

"  Drop  that !  "  cried  Peter,  in  a  loud  voice.  "  We  're 
perfectly  willing  for  you  to  search  the  premises  —  stay 
all  night  if  you  like  and  begin  over  again  in  the  mornin' 
—  but  when  it  comes  to  tearin'  down  a  man's  house, 
why,  that 's  different ;  and  I,  for  one,  ain't  a-goin'  to 
stand  for  it.  Drop  that  hatchet,  I  say  !  " 

No  one  seemed  to  be  paying  any  attention  to  the 
apologetic  cook,  who  continued  to  wrap  his  floury  hands 
in  his  apron;  but  Locke  kept  a  wary  eye  on  the  burlv 

[157] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Pete  while  he  calmly  gave  the  board  another  wrench. 
As  for  Philip,  Philip  went  on  smoking. 

It  was  Joe  Hilary  who  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
jerked  his  right  hand  from  under  his  apron  disclosing 
therein  an  ugly,  cocked  revolver.  But  the  Missionary 
was  as  quick  as  he.  He  had  not  trusted  the  grin  from 
the  beginning.  His  foot  shot  out  and  the  fellow 
sprawled  upon  the  floor,  his  pistol  spinning  into  the 
corner,  surprised  out  of  his  clutch  by  the  unexpectedness 
of  the  attack  from  that  quarter.  This,  Hugh  Hunt 
promptly  confiscated.  The  Dorseys,  father  and  son, 
leaped  upon  Locke  simultaneously,  but  before  they 
knew  just  what  was  happening  or  how  it  was  happening, 
they  found  themselves  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  their 
comrade,  with  Locke  and  the  Missionary  standing  side 
by  side,  each  covering  them  with  a  revolver.  Hugh  was 
smiling  his  admiration. 

"  I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind  whether  you  are  a 
college  athlete  or  a  pugilist,"  he  said  to  his  friend, 
laughingly.  "  When  I  saw  you  throw  the  old  man 
without  effort  at  all,  I  thought  it  was  the  trained  trick- 
ery of  wrestling  schools ;  but  when  I  saw  you  hand  Pete 
one  in  the  jaw  which  alone  sent  that  Cyclops  sprawling, 
I  put  it  down  to  muscle,  pure  and  simple.  Please  en- 
lighten me." 

"  I  wonder  what  you  would  call  that  little  act  of 
yours  ?  "  said  Locke,  grimly.  "  I  sha'n't  be  doubtful  of 
your  fighting  qualities  any  more,  Hunt.  Take  my 
gun,  will  you,  and  keep  these  fellows  covered  while  I 
proceed  with  my  most  interesting  investigations.  No 

[158] 


THE         DORSEY         GANG 

gun  on  you,  Mr.  Philip?  No?  Good  for  you.  You 
told  the  truth  for  once,  anyway.  Yes,  Peter,  here  is 
yours.  Don't  perjure  yourself.  I  'm  right  glad  you 
did  n't  see  fit  to  draw  it."  He  kept  the  confiscated  re- 
volver in  his  hand  while  the  surly  Peter  looked  on  in 
convulsed  but  helpless  rage. 

"  Here,  Raynor,  you  take  them,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  '11 
get  the  whiskey." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Locke,  in  surprise.  "  You  are  n't 
afraid,  are  you  ?  They  '11  be  as  meek  as  lambs  if  you 
just  keep  those  muzzles  straight." 

"  You  see,"  explained  the  Missionary,  deprecatingly, 
"  they  might  think  that,  because  I  'm  a  preacher,  I 
would  n't  shoot.  Now  they  know  you  would  —  that  it 
would  be  sort  of  a  pleasure  to  you,  in  fact  —  but  they 
might  test  me.  You  take  the  guns,  Raynor." 

"  Indeed  I  will,"  said  Locke,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  words,  but  he  could  not  help  wondering  about  the 
Missionary.  He  did  not  seem  a  coward  and  he,  Locke, 
should  never  forget  the  quick  tripping  that  saved  his 
life.  He  had  never  known  any  one  like  this  man.  He 
could  not  help  wondering. 

Hugh  Hunt  stepped  lightly  to  the  north  wall  and 
finished  prying  off  the  board  before  the  scowling  gaze 
of  the  prostrate  road-house  keepers.  The  action  dis- 
closed a  yawning  hole  which  seemed  to  extend  back  into 
the  hill.  He  quickly  lighted  a  match  and  a  small  cave 
was  revealed,  piled  high  with  bottles  of  liquor.  He 
pulled  out  a  bottle  and  held  it  up  silently  to  Locke's 
view;  then  he  drew  out  another  and  another,  with  a 

[159] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

gesture  indicative  of  his  opinion  that  he  could  repeat 
the  act  indefinitely. 

"  Can  you  explain  the  presence  of  those  bottles  back 
there  in  the  cave?  "  asked  Locke,  sharply. 

No  one  deigned  a  reply,  but  all  three  looked  longingly 
at  their  confiscated  firearms. 

"  Now,  this  is  what  you  are  to  do  and  to  do  at  once," 
proceeded  Locke,  with  stern  deliberateness.  "  Listen 
to  me,  if  you  please.  I  am  using  plain  language,  Peter, 
very  plain  language.  I  think  you  can  understand  it. 
Pack  up  your  things,  put  them  on  your  wagon,  and 
leave  the  Reservation  to-night.  Do  not  come  back. 
You  will  be  very  sorry  if  you  ever  do.  It  will  mean 
the  penitentiary  next  time.  It  should  have  meant  it 
this  time,  only  for  Major  Mendenhall's  leniency.  My 
friend  and  I  will  wait  here  for  you  to  go.  This  stuff, 
being  contraband,  we  shall  just  destroy,  for  fear  you 
might  meet  an  Indian  with  a  tickle  in  his  throat  before 
you  have  crossed  the  border.  Your  guns  you  may  have 
when  I  have  taken  out  the  loads.  You  promised  to  go 
without  trouble.  Now  move !  " 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  men  to  pack  up  their 
few  belongings.  Their  effects  seemed  to  be  such  as 
would  warrant  one  in  the  notion  that  the  owners  had 
ever  in  mind  a  hasty  or  unexpected  leave  taking.  They 
maintained  a  stubborn  silence,  though  the  Dorseys  were 
defiantly  noisy  in  the  throwing  together  of  their  house- 
hold goods.  Joe  Hilary,  on  the  contrary,  moved  about, 
cat-like. 

The  sun  was  just  going  down  when  they  climbed  into 
[160] 


THE         DORSET         GANG 

the  wagon.  From  a  leafy  covert  stepped  Running 
Bird.  He  was  gaunt  yet  from  the  strain  of  the  dance 
but  he  had  recovered  much  of  his  strength.  He  said 
nothing,  answered  no  greeting. 

Peter  Dorsey  turned  in  his  seat.  His  pale  eyes  were 
almost  black  with  rage.  His  expression  was  the  acme 
of  malignancy.  For  once  his  voice  was  not  loud.  It 
was  as  if  his  great  wrath  had  consumed  the  strength 
of  it. 

"It  is  not  the  end,"  he  said.  "I  will  get  even." 
It  was  upon  Locke  Raynor  that  his  malevolent  glance 
rested. 

Philip  whipped  up  the  horses,  and  the  rickety  buck- 
board  creaked  up  the  hill  and  so  out  of  sight,  as  dusk 
came  to  the  valley. 

"  They  are  bad  men,"  then  spoke  Running  Bird,  une- 
motionally. "  They  will  come  back  before  the  wolves  of 
Wazeattah  Wechastah  *  make  the  snow  to  fly.  White 
people  forget.  But  our  old  men  will  be  safe  until  then. 
I  am  very  glad." 

He  would  not  remain  with  Locke  and  the  Missionary 
for  the  night,  but  slipped  back  into  the  timber,  where 
his  pony  was  tethered,  and  disappeared  into  the  fast 
gathering  darkness. 

*  God  of  the  North. 


[161] 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  SPECIAL,  INSPECTOR   ASKS    FOR   A   RE-COUNT 

SO  excited  were  the  B rules  over  the  murder  of  White 
Shield  that  not  until  the  following  day  did  Major 
Mendenhall  deem  it  wise  to  proceed  with  the  issuing 
of  rations  to  this  turbulent  tribe.  Even  then  morose 
looks  and  in-dwelling  fires  of  revolt  characterized  the 
silent  gathering  of  the  chiefs  and  heads  of  families  at 
the  Lower  Agency.  All  were  sober  —  the  young  men 
as  well  as  the  old.  There  was  no  more  whiskey  in  Big 
Neck's  jurisdiction.  What  the  Dorseys  had  so  cleverly 
concealed  had  already  trickled  down  the  meandering 
creek  to  the  river,  whose  sands  had  doubtless  before 
this  scoured  to  a  comely  purity  the  sick  tints  of  the 
rotten  brew ;  and  the  Dorseys  themselves  had  crossed 
the  border  in  the  night.  What  Mad  Wolf  had  — 
if  indeed  any  was  left  to  him  after  the  long  night  of 
his  desperate  struggle  to  lose  himself  and  be  seen  of  his 
people  no  more  —  was  with  him  somewhere  on  the  wide 
and  lonely  expanses  of  the  Great  Reservation,  pursuing 
with  him  his  hunted  and  resentful  way  to  the  west  — 
ever  to  the  west,  to  lose  himself  yet  more  unfindably  in 
the  mountains,  perhaps,  where  he  would  not  be  alone,  and 
yet  where  neither  the  old  man's  grandson  nor  Running 

[162] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

Bird  nor  any  of  his  band  would  ever  follow  him,  be- 
cause they  were  poor  in  spirit  and  listened  to  the  pretty 
talk  of  the  pale-face.  No,  there  would  be  no  drunken 
madness  to-day;  and  yet  stalking  beside  the  gloomy 
warriors  of  other  days  were  the  ghosts  of  the  past,  and 
the  ghosts  of  the  past  are  the  gods  of  the  present  to 
the  prairie  folk.  They  are  of  a  wonderful  and  peculiar 
power  in  holding  allegiance. 

Among  the  supposedly  friendly  tribes  there  were  still 
those  wary  and  wild  ones  who  refused  to  accept  this 
partial  payment  of  the  nation's  debt,  seeing  in  it  only 
tricks  and  a  confession  of  subjection;  but  these  were 
few  in  number,  and  that  number  was  steadily  decreasing. 
Most  of  them  were  glad  enough  to  take  their  share  of 
the  heaped-up  flour  and  sugar  and  bacon  and  coffee  — 
thus  never  to  be  hungry  any  more  in  the  lean  years 
and  never  to  labor  in  the  fat  ones.  Many  of  these, 
indeed,  laughed,  filling  themselves  daily  to  repletion 
while  the  good  things  lasted  and  thinking  how  little 
difference  it  would  make  with  them  when  the  time  came 
to  strike.  But  these,  too,  were  becoming  fewer  in 
number  and  were  of  that  too  populous  class  who  had 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Laramie  Treaty,  who  did 
not  understand  it,  and  who  doubtless  never  would,  and 
who  therefore  held  themselves  absolutely  unbound  by 
its  moral  obligations. 

The  chiefs  received  in  proportion  to  the  number 
in  their  particular  tribes;  then  each  chief  took  his 
measure  of  the  flour,  the  sugar,  the  bacon,  and  the 
coffee,  and  emptied  it  out  in  heaps  on  buffalo  robes.  Alt 

[163] 


THE        SPIRIT        TBAILi 

this  was  accomplished  with  the  dignity  and  form  dear 
to  the  hearts  of  the  ceremony-loving1  red  man,  crude 
though  his  manifestation  of  it  may  be,  and  the  strange 
scene  was  brilliant  with  color  and  flaunting  feather. 
To  the  buffalo  robe  came  the  head  of  each  family  be- 
longing to  that  particular  band,  and  to  this  head  was 
given  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  individuals  in  his 
family.  It  was  a  long  and  arduous  task  to  the  clerks 
but  the  Indians  delighted  in  it,  however  much  the  shadow 
of  the  murdered  man  came  between  them  and  unalloyed 
enjoyment  of  the  great  festal  day.  This  shadow  had 
not  lifted  when  finally  the  work  was  done  and  the  busy 
Agent  and  his  corps  of  assistants  were  hastening  back 
to  Big  Bend. 

The  shadow  lay  heavy  on  Hugh  Hunt's  heart;  for 
thus,  he  knew,  reasoned  the  Dakotas :  "  If  it  were  not 
for  the  pale-face,  we  should  be  hunting  buffalo  and  not 
starved  cattle  of  the  ranges;  and  if  those  beeves  had 
not  been  forced  upon  us,  our  young  men  would  not 
have  been  found  fault  with;  and  if  they  had  not  been 
found  fault  with,  old  White  Shield  would  not  have 
talked  to  them;  and  if  he  had  not  talked  to  them,  his 
voice  would  still  be  heard  in  the  councils  of  our  people. 
Again,  you  must  not  drink  fire-water,  says  the  white 
nian.  But  who  makes  the  fire-water?  Does  the  poor 
Indian?  "  So,  on  account  of  the  shadow,  the  Missionary 
did  not  return  with  the  Agency  party,  but  lingered  for 
awhile  among  the  Brules. 

Scarcely  had  Locke  Raynor  washed  the  dust  and 
perspiration  of  the  homeward  trail  from  his  warm  face, 

[164] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

and  began  to  contemplate  longingly  from  his  window  the 
wavering  green  line  that  marked  the  course  of  the  river, 
and  to  wonder  if  he  would  have  time  to  seek  a  shady 
spot  on  the  bank  from  which  to  take  a  plunge  into  the 
cool  water,  when  he  was  summoned  to  ride  out  and 
assist  in  the  receiving  of  cattle  which  the  contractors 
were  ready  to  consign  to  the  Government.  With  a  sigh, 
he  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  a  bath  for  the  present,  and, 
running  a  comb  through  his  wet  and  tousled  hair,  has- 
tened away  to  keep  the  appointment.  In  spite  of 
sundry  little  premonitory  aches  which  told  him  that  he 
was  sadly  in  need  of  rest,  he  was  in  high  spirits.  War- 
lick  had  asked  for  his  resignation.  It  was  only  through 
Major  Mendenhall's  good-natured  refusal  to  accede  to 
the  request  until  the  new  clerk  had  been  fairly  tried  that 
he  had  been  able  to  justify  that  faith  by  the  altogether 
successful  removal  of  the  Dorseys  and  their  goods  and 
chattels  from  the  Major's  domain.  He  had  wanted 
to  do  what  he  had  so  lately  done  immediately  after 
his  arrival  at  the  Agency;  but  the  Major  had  in- 
formed him  that  he  had  given  the  Dorseys  permission 
to  operate  the  road-house  and  that  he  did  not  believe 
they  had  sold  any  whiskey  since  assuming  the  manage- 
ment of  it.  He  had  been  obliged  to  acquiesce  in  the 
Major's  decision  but  he  had  not  trusted  the  Major's 
perspicacity.  If,  at  first,  he  had  been  inclined  to  doubt 
the  Agent's  honesty  of  intention,  and  with  his  worldly 
knowledge  of  men's  motives  ascribed  to  him,  invol- 
untarily, a  bit  of  official  chicanery  in  regard  to  the 
staying  of  the  Dorseys,  he  had  since  greatly  modi- 

[165] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

fied  this  impression.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  learned 
that  Major  Mendenhall  had  received  his  appointment 
by  grace  of  him  called  the  Indians'  Apostle.  The 
work  of  civilization  being  so  closely  allied  to  the  work 
of  Christianization  which  the  White  Robe  was  so 
quietly  and  yet  so  comprehensively  pursuing  with  a 
faith  higher  than  the  stars  and  as  unfaltering  as 
eternity,  the  Government  had  yielded  to  the  Church's 
Commission  of  Indian  Affairs  in  the  choice  of  an  execu- 
tive. The  Government  reasoned  that  the  Church 
possessed  an  immense  vantage  power  in  its  position  on 
the  ground,  its  wise  reading  of  men's  hearts,  its  fair- 
ness, its  divine  fellowship,  unhampered  as  was  the 
Department  of  the  Interior  by  prejudice,  greed,  the 
insistent  clamor  for  the  spoils  of  office,  and  the  ineffi- 
dency  which  was  the  result  of  such  a  disregard  of  the 
eternal  fitness  of  things.  Locke  Raynor  had  never 
seen  the  Missionary  Bishop,  but  he  had  a  high  regard 
for  Hugh  Hunt,  and  Hugh  Hunt  spoke  of  the  White 
Robe  with  a  catch  in  his  throat  and  eyes  so  full  of 
prophecy  that,  for  the  time,  they  were  dimmed  to 
earth.  He  thought  it  likely  the  Missionary  Bishop 
knew  whom  he  was  putting  in  worldly  authority  over 
his  loved  redskins.  In  the  second  place,  he  liked  the 
Agent's  big,  good-natured  face,  placid  except  for  those 
sudden  gusts  of  passion  which  were  so  quickly  spent. 
Surely  it  was  a  guileless  face,  else  the  Agent  was  a  splen- 
did masquerader.  But  there  was  yet  another  reason  for 
his  kinder  judgment.  More  and  more  was  he  coming 
under  the  influence  of  the  sweet  personality  of  Katha- 

[166] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

rine  Mendenhall.  Thinking  of  her,  he  was  glad  anew 
that  the  opportunity  had  been  vouchsafed  him  to  vin- 
dicate his  mistrust  of  the  Dorseys. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  receiving  station.  The  Agent 
was  already  there  as  was  also  Mr.  Warlick.  Mr.  War- 
lick,  it  seemed,  had  a  comprehensive  as  well  as  an  in- 
satiable curiosity.  A  cattle  inspector  was  also  there, 
curt  of  speech,  quick  of  manner,  keen  of  eye,  careless 
in  dress.  He  was  diametrically  opposed  to  the  special 
inspector  in  all  these  minor  points  of  personality.  Mr. 
Warlick  was  as  clean  and  unruffled  as  if  he  had  spent 
the  morning  at  his  toilet  instead  of  in  the  saddle. 
Locke  wondered  resentfully  if  he  had  found  the  time  for 
a  bath.  v 

"  We  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  said  Warlick,  with 
the  hint  of  an  edge  to  his  voice. 

"  I  am  here,"  replied  Locke,  shortly. 
A  number  of  cattle  were  held  in  a  bunch.  They  were 
presumably  picked  stock.  A  second  instalment  was 
held  together  farther  down  at  the  foot  of  a  gently 
sloping  ravine  for  reinforcement  of  the  ranks.  The 
Government  had  contracted  for  one  hundred  head  of 
unblemished  beeves.  The  man  of  the  curt  speech  and 
quick  manner  —  whose  name  was  Lemuel  Morton,  but 
who  was  more  familiarly  known  as  Mort  —  stood  near 
to  check  off  the  number  and  to  pass  upon  the  physical 
desirability  or  undesirability  of  these  involuntary  candi- 
dates for  doubtful  honors.  Mr.  Warlick  hugged  the 
vicinity  of  the  Agent,  occasionally  indulging  in  a  desul- 
tory conversation.  It  was  still  and  very  warm.  Oppo- 

[167] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

site,  the  yellow  bluffs  were  beetling.  On  this  side,  the 
slopes  were  more  gentle.  Here  and  there  in  the  distance 
might  be  seen  a  small  crawling  procession  of  nomads 
migrating  to  the  far  places  of  their  Reservation. 

The  cattle  were  driven  past  Lemuel  Morton  singly. 
The  unchallenged  ones  went  on  to  the  temporary  pas- 
ture, where  they  were  allowed  to  wander  and  feed  at  will. 
Those  rejected  were  taken  in  charge  by  a  herder  de- 
tailed for  the  purpose  by  the  contractors,  and  driven 
on  around  the  hill  to  feed  in  the  valley  beyond  until 
such  time,  as  the  number  being  told  to  the  satisfaction 
of  all,  those  found  wanting  might  be  driven  back  to 
the  ranges.  Lemuel  Morton  seemed  an  impartial  judge. 
Many  a  scabby,  mangy,  underfed  creature  was  halted 
and  sent  on  around  the  hill.  When  half  the  requisite 
number  had  been  checked  off,  the  cattle  inspector  sud- 
denly frowned  and  puckered  up  his  lips  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then,  "  I  passed  on  that  steer  before,"  he  said 
crisply. 

"  You  're  dreamin',  Mort,"  said  the  contractors'  repre- 
sentative, with  a  tolerant  grin. 

"  Well,  maybe  I  am,  but  don't  do  it  again,  Mr. 
Payne.  Same  blind  eye,  same  old  ribs  stickin'  up  out  of 
the  same  old  black  hide.  Smooth  game  that,  drivin'  him 
clear  around  the  hill  and  mixin'  him  up  again  with  the 
main  herd  —  but  don't  do  it  again." 

"  You  're  right.  There 's  no  gettin'  around  you, 
Mort,"  responded  the  man  called  Payne,  with  a  pro- 
digious wink.  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  Warlick. 
"  Only,"  he  continued,  "  you  're  dead  wrong  this  time. 

[168] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

Made    a    little    mistake    for    once.     This    is    the    first 
time  — " 

"Shut     up,     can't     you?"     said     Mort,     tersely. 
"  You  're  bothering  me." 

"  Yes,  but  I  'd  like  for  you  to  acknowledge  that 
whereas  there  might  be  a  middlin'  strong  resemblance, 
you  ain't  undertakin'  to  say  that  he  is  the  same." 

Mort  paused  a  moment  in  his  operations.  He  looked 
at  Billy  Payne.  There  was  a  cool  contempt  in  the 
glance.  Billy  Payne  returned  the  look  with  usury. 
His  level  glance  carried  a  threat. 

"  No,  I  ain't  undertakin'  to  say  it,"  said  Mort, 
finally.  "  I  have  already  said  it  and  I  will  say  it  again 
if  you  ain't  satisfied.  Don't  play  to  Mr.  Warlick,  Billy. 
More  'n  likely  he  would  n't  appreciate  it  if  you  did." 
He  returned  to  his  work  with  an  upward  lift  of  his 
carelessly  clad  shoulders. 

"  I  appreciate  this  much,"  put  in  the  special  inspec- 
tor, with  his  usual  stately  manner,  "  that  I  have  this 
day  rescued  the  Government  from  the  ignominy  of  con- 
stant deceit  and  double  dealing  on  the  part  of  its  paid 
servants  and  those  with  whom  said  servants  transact 
business.  It  was  high  time  some  one  looked  into  the 
affairs  of  this  Agency,  and  very  much  worth  while." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  "  cried  Mort,  wheeling  sud- 
denly and  facing  Mr.  Warlick  squarely. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Warlick,  deliberately,  "  that  if  I  had 
not  been  here,  it  is  highly  probable  that  this  disgraceful 
bag  o'  bones  would  not  have  been  halted  a  second  time 
—  if  indeed  it  had  been  halted  at  all." 

[169] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

A  quick  red  came  into  Mort's  brown  cheeks.  A  quick 
retort  was  on  his  lips  —  and  then  he  laughed  instead. 

"  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  he  said  to  Locke, 
still  laughing.  "  Why,  you  funny  little  man !  " 

The  counting  continued. 

"  One  hundred  and  done"  cried  Mort,  when  at  last 
the  roll  was  complete.  He  mopped  his  hot  face  with  his 
handkerchief.  "  Mean  job,"  he  said  to  no  one  in  par- 
ticular. 

Mr.  Warlick  stepped  forward. 

"  One  moment,"  he  said.     "  I  ask  for  a  re-count." 

"  A  what?  "  demanded  Mort,  in  blunt  astonishment. 

"  A  re-count  of  the  accepted  cattle.  I  am  far  from 
sure  that  there  are  a  hundred  here.  The  agreement  was 
for  a  full  hundred,  I  believe.  I  ask  for  a  re-counting." 

"  Well,  ask  away,  but  I  'm  blamed  if  you  won't  ask 
till  you  're  blue  in  the  face  with  frost  before  I  count 
'em  again.  I  appeal  to  you,  Major  Mendenhall.  Have 
I  done  my  duty  or  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  think  so,  Mort.  I  don't  see  why  not.  What 
makes  you  think  there  has  been  a  mistake,  Mr.  War- 
lick?  Raynor  here  checked  them  off  after  Mort  let 
loose  of  them." 

"  It  would  be  so  easy  for  them  to  run  around  the 
little  hill  yonder,"  murmured  Mr.  Warlick,  softly. 
"  Why  would  n't  it  be  as  easy  for  the  good  ones  as  for 
the  bad  ones?  Would  you  be  willing  to  take  your  oath 
that  none  of  the  accepted  cattle  has  been  counted  twice? 
I  am  not  an  expert  accountant  —  in  beefsteaks,  I 
acknowledge;  but  I  have  been  rather  busy  since  the 

[170] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

second  appearance  of  '  Yon  lean  and  hungry  Cassius  ' 
and  I  have  not  yet  counted  to  one  hundred,  including  the 
rejected  ones.  I  think  you  had  better  have  them 
numbered  again.  Major." 

"  Count  'em  again,  boys,"  said  the  Major. 

Mort's  face  had  become  thoughtful.  He  again  puck- 
ered his  lips. 

"Shall  we,  Major?"  he  asked,  doubtfully.  "It's 
pretty  late.  If  everything  is  not  all  right,  Mr.  Payne 
will  be  glad  to  rectify  it  in  the  morning." 

"  Count  'em  again! "  roared  the  Major,  his  face  pur- 
pling with  wrath. 

Billy  Payne's  countenance  was  a  study. 

"  All  right,  Mr.  Raynor,  we  '11  count  'em  again,"  said 
Mort,  gently. 

And  they  did.  The  accepted  beeves  were  rounded  up 
into  a  compact  herd  while  the  rejected  ones  were  driven 
some  distance  away  and  closely  guarded,  so  that  the  two 
bunches  could  not  become  inadvertently  mixed.  No  one 
had  anything  to  say  while  Lemuel  Morton  and  Locke 
Raynor  made  their  second  counting.  All  at  once  War- 
lick's  self-important  and  spectacular  declaration  of 
doubt  made  such  a  scheme  for  fraud  as  he  had  outlined 
seem  remarkably  plausible. 

When  there  were  no  more  cattle  to  come,  when,  cut 
off  by  watchful  herders  from  wandering  around  the  hill 
and  so  hastened  down  the  ravine  by  pressure  from  some 
interested  by-stander,  the  accepted  herd  went  to  graz- 
ing peacefully  where  they  stood,  the  counting  rested  at 
eighty-three. 

[171] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

After  supper  that  night,  Major  Mendenhall  went  to 
his  office  to  wrestle  alone  with  the  multitudinous  troubles 
that  were  already  beginning  to  streak  his  dark  hair  and 
to  make  him  wonder  in  all  seriousness  why  he  had  so 
heartily  desired  this  appointment  to  the  Indian  service. 
Here  Mr.  Warlick  found  him.  The  Major  did  not  care 
to  see  Mr.  Warlick  particularly.  His  advent  upon  the 
Reservation  had  seemed  a  preconcerted  signal  for  Pan- 
dora to  open  her  box. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  your  beloved  issue  clerk 
now?  "  began  Mr.  Warlick,  abruptly  for  him.  He  re- 
fused to  be  seated  and  stood  instead  by  the  open  window 
in  order  to  appropriate,  to  the  Major's  loss,  all  he  could 
of  the  slight  coolness  which  crept  through  it  with  the 
going  down  of  the  sun. 

"  Nothing  has  happened  so  far  as  I  can  see,  to  change 
my  previous  estimation,"  responded  the  Major,  fanning 
himself  with  suggestive  vigor  with  his  hat.  Mr.  War- 
lick  did  not  take  the  hint.  He  even  moved  closer  to  the 
•window. 

"  You  do  not  connect  him  in  any  way,  then,  with  that 
affair  of  this  afternoon?  " 

"I  certainly  do  not,"  replied  the  Major,  loyally,  if 
wearily. 

"Have  you  any  idea  who  this  Locke  Raynor  is?" 

"  He  is  just  Locke  Raynor,  I  reckon.  A  nice  sort  of 
young  fellow  who  suits  me  mighty  well.  Understands 
the  art  of  minding  his  own  business  to  a  t-y-ty.  I  don't 
think  there  *s  anything  mysterious  about  him  at  all." 

[172] 


ASKS      FOR      A     RE-COUNT 

The  special  inspector  leaned  forward  slightly  and 
lowered  his  voice. 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Major,  that  he  might  be  a 

spy?" 

Major  MendenhalPs  big  blue  eyes  opened  wide  in  un- 
feigned amazement. 

"  A  spy !  Why,  what  kind  of  spy  would  he  be  —  and 
whose  spying  would  he  do  —  and  what  would  he  be  spy- 
ing for  ?  "  he  blurted  out,  wonderingly . 

Warlick  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  balanced  himself 
on  his  neatly  shod  toes,  coming  down  to  earth  again  on 
his  heels  before  answering. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  have  your  suspicions  —  that  is  all." 

"  Did  you  know  Locke  Raynor  before  you  came  out 
here?  "  asked  the  Major,  shrewdly. 

"  No,  I  never  knew  —  Locke  Raynor  before  I  came 
out  here,"  replied  Warlick,  impassively. 

"  Well,  the  Department  sends  you  out  to  look  over  the 
grounds,"  said  the  Major,  plainly  relieved  at  the  an- 
swer, "  and  I  don't  think  it  would  stoop  to  send  a  secret 
spy  in  addition.  One  's  enough  for  me,"  he  added,  under 
his  breath.  Aloud,  he  continued,  "  As  for  the  rest,  I 
can't  see  that  Locke  Raynor  holds  a  position  of  sufficient 
standing  to  be  in  any  way  dangerous  to  any  one's  inter- 
ests, public  or  private.  I  can  certainly  deal  with  my  own 
clerks.  If  he  connived  in  any  way  with  Billy  Payne  — 
which  I  candidly  confess  I  do  not  believe  —  to  defraud 
the  Government  by  wittingly  counting  those  wretched 

[173] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

cattle  twice,  I  can  call  him  to  account  without  assistance 
from  any  one,  if  you  please." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  this  Raynor  is  too  smart,  far  too 
smart  —  or  thinks  he  is  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing 
—  to  be  contented  with  this  clerkship.  I  am  always  sus- 
picious of  erudition  out  of  its  place.  You  don't  happen 
to  think  of  any  other  interests  he  might  be  serving,  do 
you,  other  than  those  of  the  Government  ?  " 

"I  certainly  do  not!"  snapped  the  Major,  now 
thoroughly  angry. 

"  And  you  are  firmly  convinced  that  he  was  innocent 
of  any  wrong  in  that  transaction  of  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  I  am." 

The  Major  was  on  the  rack  and  showed  it,  but  his  in- 
quisitor quizzed  on  unmercifully. 

"  On  whom  do  you  lay  the  blame  ?  " 

"  Why,  on  Billy  Payne,  I  reckon,  though  I  always 
supposed  his  word  was  good  before.  He  said  he 
thought  his  herders  drove  up  fresh  instalments  from  a 
bunch  down  toward  the  river  with  which  we  finally  filled 
out  the  number,  you  remember." 

"  The  deception  would  profit  the  cowboys  nothing 
unless  Billy  Payne  were  cognizant  of  it.  Neither  would 
it  profit  Billy  Payne  if  the  contractors  were  not  wise  to 
it  —  unless  he  were  indeed  smooth  enough  to  make  a  get- 
away with  the  shorts  to  green  pastures  of  his  own.  Who 
are  the  contractors,  Major?  " 

"  Asher  Newman,  the  post  trader,"  said  the  Agent, 
unwillingly. 

"  Served  in  the  army,  did  n't  he?  " 
[174] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

"  Four  years,"  said  the  Agent,  simply. 

"  Did  you  ever  fall  short  before?  " 

"  Once  or  twice  when  it  came  time  to  issue  them.  We 
thought  some  had  strayed  away.  Our  facilities  for  pas- 
turage here  are  not  first  class.  We  never  missed  any  at 
receiving  time." 

"  And  you  still  hold  Locke  Raynor  guiltless?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Then  it  lies  between  you  and  your  friend,  the  post 
trader,"  said  Special  Inspector  Warlick,  softly. 

"Sir!"  cried  the  Major,  springing  from  his  chair, 
his  eyes  blazing.  He  was  fairly  choking  with  rage. 
"  Do  you  dare  accuse  me  —  me  —  I  say,  do  you  dare 
call  me  a  thief?  Answer  me  or  I  '11  break  every  bone  in 
your  sleek  body!  Am  I  thief?  Answer  me,  I  say, 
answer  me ! " 

"  Dear  me,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  answer  you," 
deprecated  Mr.  Warlick.  "  Only  give  me  time.  There 
are  a  great  many  people  in  the  world  who  do  not  place 
a  little  easy  grafting  from  the  Government  in  the  same 
category  with  thievery.  However  much  you  and  I 
might  differ  on  such  a  proposition,  I  am  fair  enough  to 
see  how  even  an  honest  man  —  sometimes  — "  he  stopped, 
quailing  a  little  under  the  blaze  of  the  blue  eyes  con- 
fronting him. 

"  Go  on !  "  choked  the  Ma j  or. 

"  Therefore,"  proceeded  the  inspector,  shifting  his 
ground  a  little,  "  I  can  easily  see  how  your  friend,  the 
trader,  might  fall  into  the  error  of  not  being  particu- 
larly punctilious  in  the  buying  of  cattle  to  meet  his 

[175] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

contract.  The  lame,  the  halt  and  the  blind  —  and  the 
bony  — "  he  added,  relapsing  into  misplaced  facetious- 
ness,  "  anything  and  everything  that  could  hobble  down 
to  the  receiving  station  on  three  legs  and  a  half,  or 
four,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  had  a  tatter  of  skin  left 
to  cover  its  ribs,  went  in.  It  was  all  right.  No  one 
was  hurt.  The  Government  was  a  sort  of  an  abstract 
proposition,  any  way.  No  one  asked  any  questions. 
Anything  was  good  enough  for  a  dirty  Injun.  Some- 
body high  in  authority  had  a  winking  eye  —  somebody, 
mark  you  —  or  such  a  thing  could  not  be  brought  to  a 
successful  culmination." 

"  If  you  breathe  one  word  more  or  if  you  fail  to  re- 
tract what  you  have  already  said  about  my  friend,  I  '11 
—  I'll  —  I'll  kill  you,  Mr.  Warlick!"  cried  Major 
Mendenhall,  pale  with  a  purpose  which  seemed  terribly 
real  just  then.  "  If  you  meant  just  now  that  because 
he  was  in  the  war,  the  post  trader  argued  that  the 
country  owed  him  any  little  thing  he  might  be  able  to 
pick  up  that  way  on  the  side,  you  lie !  "  His  tense 
voice  softened.  "  It  is  not  those  who  have  fought  their 
country's  battles  who  ask  anything  of  it  or  who  stoop  to 
barter  away  its  trust.  The  smell  of  powder  —  and  lo, 
one's  country  is  sacred  forevermore.  It  is  we  who  stay 
at  home,  no  matter  for  what  reason,  who  sometimes  for- 
get. You  and  I,  Mr.  Warlick,  are  of  those  who  might 
sometimes  forget  —  but  Asher  Newman  never!  " 

He  sat  down  after  this  outburst  and  resumed  his 
fanning.  If  the  inspector  was  non-plussed  for  the 
moment,  it  was  not  for  long. 

[176] 


ASKS      FOB,      A      RE-COUNT 

"  Why  don't  you  discharge  Locke  Raynor?  "  he  asked 
after  awhile,  airily.  "  He  is  nothing  to  you,  as  you 
say,  but  a  clerk.  Somebody  has  made  a  mistake.  It  is 
not  Major  Mendenhall.  It  is  not  the  post  trader. 
Who  then?" 

"  To  hell  with  you  and  Locke  Raynor  and  the  whole 
world  for  that  matter !  "  cried  the  Ma j  or,  thoroughly 
exasperated.  "  You  are  right.  What  do  I  care  for 
Locke  Raynor  or  any  one  in  comparison  to  a  man  like 
Asher  Newman?  If  by  discharging  Locke  Raynor,  I 
can  get  a  trifle  of  rest  from  your  importunity  —  I  speak 
frankly,  Mr.  Warlick  —  he  is  discharged.  I  do  not 
know  who  was  at  fault  this  afternoon.  No  matter.  It 
is  ended.  The  position  of  issue  clerk  of  this  Agency 
will  be  declared  vacant  in  the  morning.  The  game  is 
not  worth  the  candle.  Clerks  are  plenty  —  I  hope. 
Good-night." 

Returning  from  an  early  plunge  into  the  cold  water 
of  the  Missouri,  glowing  from  the  vigorous  friction 
with  the  swift  and  tumbling  current,  Locke  encountered 
Katharine  Mendenhall  strolling  riverwards.  They  met 
with  an  odd  constraint.  She  was  hatless  and  lovely. 
There  was  no  wind  to  ruffle  her  soft,  shining  hair.  Her 
face  with  its  clear  tan  and  soft  oval  outlines  was  re- 
served and  thoughtful.  It  was  so  early  that  the  Agency 
with  its  sloping  plain  was  still  shrouded  in  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  eastern  hills,  which  the  sun  ascending  had 
not  yet  surmounted.  One  might  have  judged  it  de- 
linquent and  not  yet  arisen  had  it  not  been  for  the  sun- 
lit hills  across  the  river,  whose  loftier  and  more  distant 
12  £  177  ] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

summits  were  already  bathed  in  a  flood  of  molten  gold 
which  slowly  but  steadily  creeping  downward,  lapped  up 
searing  grass,  ugly  gumbo  stain,  and  harsh  bunch  of 
soap-weed,  washed  them  all  in  warm  yellow,  and  left 
them  on  the  hillside  while  it  pursued  its  Midas  course 
down  into  the  wide  valley. 

"  I  thought  I  was  the  only  creature  who  slept  within 
the  walls  stirring,"  said  Katharine,  tentatively.  "  I 
wanted  to  think  something  out  which  accounts  for  the 
earliness  of  my  hour." 

"  If  this  is  one  of  your  first  experiences  in  getting 
up  early  in  this  country,  you  have  missed  much,"  re- 
sponded Locke.  "  The  mornings  are  sublime.  The 
morning  we  rode  to  Brule,  for  instance  —  have  you  for- 
gotten already  ?  The  days  are  too  hot.  One  lives  only 
from  four  until  eight  A.  M.  After  that,  one  merely 
exists.  Then  get  up,  I  say,  and  live." 

"  Every  single  morning?  "  she  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  Every  single  morning,"  he  declared,  emphatically. 

"  It  is  lovely  now,"  she  said. 

"  Too  lovely  to  last,"  he  agreed,  with  a  peculiar  in- 
tonation that  caught  her  attention. 

"  Oh,  then  you  have  already  heard  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Warlick  told  me  last  night.  He  seemed  quite 
elated  over  it.  He  is  extremely  zealous  in  his  country's 
service,  is  n't  he  ?  If  he  occasionally  picks  on  the  wrong 
man,  why  should  we  squirm?  Why  not  pat  him  on  the 
back,  instead,  for  his  zeal  in  a  good  cause?  There  are 
plenty  of  grafters  in  the  Indian  service.  Why  dis- 
T178] 


ASKS      FOR      A      RE-COUNT 

criminate?     Kick  out  somebody.     It  will  sound  well  at 
Washington,"  he  concluded,  ironically. 

"  You  are  very  bitter,"  she  said,  simply.  "  I  do 
not  blame  you.  I  am  very  sorry." 

"  I  am  bitter  only  because  —  well,  because  my  friend. 
Special  Inspector  Warlick,  is  such  a  calf,"  he  ended, 
lamely.  "  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  don't  mind  confessing 
that.  In  truth,  I  have  some  excellent  reasons  for  want- 
ing to  stay.  I  had  something  at  stake,  for  one  thing, 
and  I  had  something  to  prove.  But  because  a  graceless 
scamp  of  a  cowboy  thought  to  enrich  himself  at  the 
expense  of  the  Government,  why,  I  have  to  go." 

"  Mr.  Raynor,  why  don't  you  tell  my  father  your 
reasons  for  wanting  to  stay?  Why  don't  you  tell  him 
who  you  are  ?  I  made  him  tell  me  all  about  it  last  night 
as  he  was  going  fuming  to  bed.  He  said  he  could  n't 
help  it  —  there  must  be  something  wrong  or  Mr.  War- 
lick  would  n't  be  so  possessed  to  get  rid  of  you.  Did 
you  know  Mr.  Warlick  before  you  came  here  ?  Why 
don't  you  tell  my  father  —  or  let  me?" 

"  You  must  not  tell  your  father  anything,  Miss  Men- 
denhall.  You  must  remember  that  —  not  anything." 

"But  why?" 

"  Mr.  Warlick  just  now  is  in  favor  with  the  Depart- 
ment. The  Department  has  been  finally  aroused  to  the 
fact  that  the  traders  and  agents  —  some  traders  and 
agents  and  other  employees  —  are  systematically  and 
egregiously  cheating  the  Government  and  robbing  the 
poor  Injun.  Your  Missionary  Bishop  was  one  of  the 

[179] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

first  to  sound  the  slogan  which  made  the  Department 
jump  in  its  sleep.  It  was  your  Missionary  Bishop  who 
asked  for  Major  MendenhalPs  appointment.  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Warlick  is  particularly  enamored  of  the 
Missionary  Bishop  and  he  is  over-zealous  to  find  de- 
linquents. He  was  so  glad  over  my  discharge  that  he 
could  not  wait  for  my  chief  to  deliver  it.  He  must 
needs  speak  the  word  himself.  Don't  you  see,  Miss 
Mendenhall?  He  is  bound  to  dismiss  somebody.  If 
your  father  insisted  upon  my  retention,  it  would  only 
result  in  both  of  us  being  sent  beyond  the  border." 

"  Better  both  in  all  fairness  than  one  for  another's 
temporary  benefit,"  persisted  Katharine,  stubbornly. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  back  —  beyond  the  border?  " 
he  asked,  a  hint  of  eagerness  in  his  voice. 

"  I?  '"  The  question  seemed  to  startle  her.  "  I  go 
back?  Why,  I  don't  know.  If  my  father  goes  back, 
I  suppose  of  course  —  why,  would  I  go  back,  too  ?  " 
She  seemed  pondering  the  question  in  her  own  mind. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  opposite  hills,  now  sun-lit  to 
their  very  base.  "  Would  I?  I  never  thought  of  that," 
she  said,  wonderingly. 

"  Of  course  you  would,"  he  returned,  sharply. 
"  What  could  there  be  for  you  here  with  your  people 
gone?" 

"  Not  much  —  for  me,"  she  assented,  simply.  She 
had  found  the  answer  to  her  question  somewhere  — 
somewhere  beyond  the  ken  of  the  man,  the  bitterest 
moment  of  whose  discharge  was  now  —  perhaps  from 
the  new  and  radiant  light  which  suddenly  flashed  over 

[180] 


14SKS      FOR     A     RE-COUNT 

all  the  hills  and  the  valley  and  the  river  as  the  sun 
leaped  lightly  and  dazzlingly,  at  last,  into  full  sight  on 
the  eastern  hill-tops.  "  Perhaps  for  someone  else  there 
will  be  something.  I  trust  so.  I  could  not  go  back 
with  my  father  now  because  I  have  promised  Mr.  Hunt 
to  teach  in  the  mission  school  this  Winter.  He  said 
to  make  White  Flower  and  the  others  like  me.  Oh, 
God  grant  that  through  men  like  the  White  Robe  and 
Hugh  Hunt  they  may  be  far,  far  better  and  wiser 
than  I!" 

Locke  Raynor  bowed  his  head  for  a  moment.  He  felt 
old  and  world-stained  and  unworthy  and  he  could  not 
bear  the  rapt  exaltation  of  the  girl's  mood,  then,  when 
he  had  failed  and  must  go  away. 

"  Good-morning ! " 

Locke  looked  up  with  a  start.  One  of  the  lesser 
employees  had  approached  the  river  bank  unseen  by 
either  Locke  or  Katharine. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Locke,  in  surprise. 

"  They  have  been  looking  for  you  up  at  the  Agency. 
You  are  to  report  at  once.  I  think  you  are  to  be  sent 
to  Yankton  to-day  on  important  business." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  I  think,"  said  Locke,  relapsing 
into  his  old  slow  way  of  speech.  "  I  am  not  subj  ect 
to  Special  Inspector  Warlick's  orders.  It  is  for  me  to 
say  when  I  shall  start  to  Yankton  or  to  the  Styx  either, 
for  that  matter.  Tell  him  from  me  that  I  still  take  my 
commands  from  Major  Mendenhall  —  only." 

"  But  it 's  the  old  man  himself  who  is  sending  you," 
said  the  young  fellow,  grinning.  "  He 's  been  looking 

[181] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

for  you  everywhere  and  swearing  some,  too,  because  you 
could  n't  be  located.  There  's  something  special  on,  I 
reckon,  because  I  heard  him  say,  '  That  settles  it.  I 
can't  spare  Raynor  until  after  this  is  satisfactorily  dis- 
posed of,  any  way.  Raynor  must  go  to  Yankton.* 
So  you  'd  better  do  a  little  sprintin'  for  he  's  in  a  tear- 
ing hurry  and  likewise  in  a  towering  rage  because  you 
can't  be  found." 

He  turned  and  sauntered  leisurely  away  after  de- 
livering his  message,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  the 
Major  was  impatiently  awaiting  his  return.  Even  in 
that  early  day  few  people  were  ever  in  a  hurry  on  the 
Reservation. 

"  And  so  you  are  going  to  be  here,  after  all,"  ex- 
claimed Katharine,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  am  always  going  to  be  where  you  are  if  I  can," 
said  Locke,  quite  simply. 

Together,  they  returned  to  the  Agency. 


[182] 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    WHITE    FLOWER 

WEAK  and  listless  but  free  from  fever,  White 
Flower  half  reclined  upon  a  buffalo  robe  near 
the  opening  of  her  father's  tribal-marked  lodge.  Oc- 
casionally, stirred  by  an  ambition  that  fluctuated  as  her 
small  store  of  strength  rose  with  rest  or  fell  with 
fatigue,  she  bent  over  an  intricate  pattern  which  she 
was  weaving  in  parti-colored  beads,  procured  for  her 
at  the  trading  store  of  Asher  Newman  by  Black  Toma- 
hawk. More  often,  her  hands  lay  idle  in  her  lap,  while 
her  moody  eyes  dwelt  darkly  upon  unseen  things.  The 
medicine  pouch  was  destined  for  Yellow  Owl,  and  she 
was  fashioning  it  thus  elaborately  at  the  instigation 
of  her  father,  who  desired  thus  royally,  as  befitted 
a  chief,  to  show  his  gratitude  for  the  recovery  of  a 
princess  of  the  Yanktonais.  White  Flower's  mother 
had  not  dared  tell  her  proud  liege  and  master  that  she 
had  deceived  him  and  that  the  white  man's  medicine  had 
wrought  the  marvellous  healing  of  their  last  and  only 
living  child.  White  Flower  herself  had  been  too  ill  to 
realize  what  her  mother  had  done;  and  as  for  Yellow 
Owl,  he  bided  his  time.  Thus  it  was  that  the  simple, 

[183] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

aboriginal,  tradition-loving  heart  of  Black  Tomahawk 
went  out  in  renewed  faith  to  the  great  magician  of 
souls  and  bodies,  and  gladly  did  him  honor.  The  great 
majority  of  the  tribe  had  scattered  for  the  Summer's 
hunting,  and  Yellow  Owl  had  followed  the  wanderers; 
but  Black  Tomahawk's  lodge  remained  unfolded  where 
his  Winter  camp  had  been,  because  White  Flower  was 
not  yet  strong  enough  for  a  long  journey,  and  White 
Flower  was  very  dear  indeed  to  the  heart  of  the  Chief. 
But  Black  Tomahawk  himself  was  temporarily  absent 
from  the  tipi. 

White  Flower's  mother  came  out  and  seated  herself 
on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  robe.  She  also  began  in- 
dustriously to  weave,  while  she  cast  surreptitious  glances 
at  her  languid  daughter. 

"  What  are  you  making?  "  asked  White  Flower,  un- 
interestedly,  her  eyes  still  upon  things  unseen. 

"  A  necklace,"  said  Smoke  Woman,  quietly,  and  then 
she  began  to  chatter  volubly,  and,  it  would  seem, 
unendingly,  her  broad,  plain,  heavy  face  redeemed 
from  positive  ugliness  by  the  animation  in  her  expres- 
sive black  eyes.  She  talked  of  the  day's  work  and  of 
the  lonesomeness  in  the  lodge  with  Black  Tomahawk 
away,  and  more  than  all,  of  the  lonesomeness  of  the 
deserted  village,  with  all  their  people  gone.  She  spoke 
frankly  and  admiringly  of  Yellow  Owl's  wonderful 
medicine,  and  gazed  adoringly  upon  White  Flower's 
averted  face.  She  longed  for  the  time  to  come  when 
White  Flower  would  be  strong  to  travel  the  way  of 
all  true  Dakotas  in  the  Summer  time  —  the  way  of 

[184] 


WOOING    OF    WHITE    FLOWER 

the  wilderness.  Black  Tomahawk's  horses  were  strong 
and  fast.  They  would  overtake  the  loiterers.  They 
would  camp  by  a  stream  whose  waters  flowed  clear  and 
strong  from  some  hidden  spring,  and  here  White 
Flower  would  grow  so  strong  and  well  that  she  would 
never  more  need  the  ministrations  of  a  medicine  man. 
Halcyon  days  she  pictured,  and  then  slyly  she  fell  to 
mimicking  the  ways  of  the  Agency  women,  oftentimes 
laughing  outright  in  pleased  appreciation  of  her  own 
cleverness.  It  would  have  been  difficult  indeed  for 
Katharine  Mendenhall  to  recognize  in  this  contented, 
smiling,  well-dressed  Indian  woman,  the  jaded,  taciturn, 
dust-stained,  hopeless-eyed  squaw  who  had  sought  her 
out  that  day  at  the  Agency  in  the  desperation  that 
defied  alike  custom,  authority,  and  the  dread  supersti- 
tion which,  in  that  day,  held  the  Indian  frantically  aloof 
from  the  white  doctor  and  his  medicine. 

White  Flower  did  not  interrupt.  She  allowed  her 
mother  the  full  monopoly  of  speech.  But  when  at  last 
Smoke  Woman  paused  for  very  lack  of  breath,  the  girl 
asked  quietly,  just  as  if  nothing  had  been  said  between 
her  first  question  and  now: 

"Who  for?" 

Smoke  Woman  bent  lower  over  her  weaving.  Her 
coarse  black  hair  shrouded  her  face.  While  she  was 
bending  thus,  silent,  the  ancient  grandmother  came  out 
of  the  tipi  where  she  had  been  taking  an  afternoon  nap. 
Her  single-piece  garment  of  buckskin  was  short,  and 
her  decorated  leggins  strapped  around  her  thin  legs 
gave  her  much  the  appearance  of  an  old  man.  Her 

[185] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

piercing  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  daughter-in-law. 
She  leaned  totteringly  upon  a  walking  stick. 

"  I  heard,"  she  announced,  grimly,  "  and  I,  too,  ask, 
«  Who  for?  '  " 

Smoke  Woman  glanced  imploringly  at  White  Flower. 
She  could  read  no  sympathy  nor  understanding  there; 
and  there  was  no  need  to  look  to  the  old  woman  for  the 
least  gleam  of  comfort.  She  was  more  impossible  even 
than  White  Flower.  There  was  no  help  for  her.  Verily 
the  women  of  her  race  were  more  bitter  against  white 
interference  than  were  the  men. 

"  I  am  making  a  pretty  necklace  for  the  child  of 
Tahu  Tanka,"  she  said.  "  Our  people  call  her  Sun- 
in-the-hair  because  her  hair  is  as  yellow  as  the  sun." 

She  was  a  wise  woman,  was  Black  Tomahawk's  wife, 
and  before  either  her  mother-in-law  or  her  daughter 
could  voice  their  displeasure,  she  continued,  adroitly: 

"  Black  Tomahawk  takes  gifts  to  Tahu  Tanka  be- 
cause he  is  good  to  our  people,  and  because  he  seeks 
to  win  the  favor  of  the  Great  Father  at  Washington, 
who  gives  to  Tahu  Tanka  the  flour  and  the  bacon  and 
the  sugar  and  the  coffee  to  give  to  us  so  that  we  do 
not  go  hungry.  I  make  a  gift  for  Tahu  Tanka's  child 
because  I,  too,  would  win  the  favor  of  Tahu  Tanka 
so  that  the  Great  Father  will  be  generous  and  give  us 
many  things.  The  Great  Father  listens  to  the  talk  of 
Tahu  Tanka.  That  is  what  Black  Tomahawk  says 
and  it  is  so." 

"Umph!"  ejaculated  the  grandmother,  sharply. 
"  If  I  were  a  man  I  would  starve  before  I  would  eat  out 

[186] 


WOOING    OF   WHITE    FLOWER 

of  the  white  man's  hand  like  a  dog.  I  hate  that  long 
white  thin  thing  that  steals  into  our  homes  without  the 
politeness  of  waiting  to  be  invited.  I  hate  her !  " 

"  And  why  should  you  seek  to  win  the  favor  of  those 
who  are  doling  out  to  us  what  is  already  our  own?" 
asked  White  Flower,  gloomily.  "  They  owe  it  to  us. 
It  is  pay  for  our  lands.  They  have  to  do  it.  It  is 
little  enough  at  best.  We  will  not  beg  for  it.  We  will 
fight  for  it.  If  they  forget  to  give  us  what  is  ours, 
let  them  look  out.  My  father  is  living  in  peace  at  the 
Agency  but  he  does  not  feel  peace.  He  will  be  very 
glad  of  an  excuse." 

She  laid  her  work  aside  and  rose  to  her  feet,  slowly, 
gathering  up  a  gay  blanket  that  had  fallen  from  her 
shoulders  and  steadying  herself  by  the  lodge  wall.  She 
was  a  slim,  graceful  creature,  light  on  her  feet  and  as 
untrammeled  as  a  bird  of  the  air ;  for,  being  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  once  powerful  and  hereditary  chief,  she  could 
not  become  a  burden  bearer  until  she  had  left  her  fath- 
er's house  for  the  lodge  of  some  man  who  would  bid  for 
and  buy  her  some  day.  Some  day.  When?  He 
would  be  a  brave,  high  in  the  councils  of  the  tribe,  be- 
cause her  father  was,  perhaps,  the  most  influential  man 
on  the  Yanktonais  reserve,  and  he  would  see  to  that 
part  of  her  marriage  venture.  But  must  he  neces- 
sarily be  of  her  own  band?  And  standing  thus 
dreamily,  White  Flower  thought  of  the  handsome 
Mad  Wolf,  who  was  very  far  away  and  had  doubtless 
before  this  joined  those  hostiles  who  had  so  resolutely, 
and  from  the  beginning,  refused  an  ignominious  sub- 

[187] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

mission  and  a  shameful  tendering  of  their  inalienable 
rights  to  the  arrogant  and  unjustifiable  demands  of  their 
enemies.  Mad  Wolf's  heart  was  right.  He  was  a 
brave  of  whom  his  women  might  well  be  proud.  He 
had  shaken  off  cowardly  subservience  to  the  invaders 
and  had  placed  himself  where  all  self-respecting 
Dakotas  should  be  —  in  the  van  of  that  army  which 
was  being  secretly  recruited  and  organized  —  in  the 
beginning  of  an  organization  vast,  far-reaching,  com- 
plete, faultless,  and  centralized.  It  would  make  the 
petulant  military  in  the  posts  up  and  down  the  river, 
who  were  used  to  fighting  the  turbulent  Tetons  in  scat- 
tered bands  under  temporary  leaders,  start  aghast  — 
could  they  but  know.  Her  brothers  would  have  been 
there  had  they  lived.  But  before  Mad  Wolf  lost  him- 
self in  the  hostile  country,  he  had  stolen  in  the  dead  of 
night  to  the  lodge  of  Yellow  Owl.  He  had  had  much 
to  say,  for  though  Mad  Wolf  was  a  wild,  though  sup- 
posedly friendly,  Brule,  and  Yellow  Owl  was  a  peaceful 
Yanktonais,  there  was  a  fearful  kinship  of  soul  in  the 
purposes  of  each,  and  Mad  Wolf  had  need  of  the  wise 
jossakeed.  A  portion  of  Mad  Wolfs  communications 
Yellow  Owl  had  imparted  to  White  Flower  before  he 
betook  himself  to  the  wilderness  with  his  as  yet  unspoken 
determination  to  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  war  party 
—  a  great  and  acknowledged  war  chief.  It  was  because 
of  what  Yellow  Owl  had  told  her  that  the  girl  smiled  and 
tossed  her  pretty  head,  while  the  grandmother  nodded  at 
her,  approvingly,  and  her  mother  silently  adored.  But 
she  had  forgotten  Mad  Wolf  when  presently  the  smile 

[188] 


WOOING    OF    WHITE    FLOWER 

vanished  and  a  mist  veiled  her  eyes.  She  stepped 
forward. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  questioned  Smoke  Woman, 
in  anxious  solicitude.  "  You  are  not  yet  strong  enough 
to  walk  far.  I  will  go  for  you." 

"  I  think  I  shall  walk  to  the  creek.  It  is  so  hot 
here.  The  shade  over  there  looks  very  pleasant.  Per- 
haps I  shall  bathe.  The  water  is  so  very  cool  and  I 
ache  with  tiredness." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Smoke  Woman. 

"  I  like  best  to  be  alone  to-day,"  said  White  Flower, 
with  the  imperiousness  of  a  princess,  and  yet  with  the 
sting  of  the  autocratic  utterance  extracted  because 
of  the  tender  little  filial  smile  that  accompanied  it. 
Smoke  Woman  submitted  without  further  word  and  bent 
once  more  to  her  threading  and  weaving. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  stream.  Black  Tomahawk  had 
an  unerring  eye  for  a  good  camp  ground.  It  was  late 
afternoon  and  extremely  warm.  The  heat  shimmered 
over  the  parched  prairie.  The  cool  green  of  the 
timber  that  bound  itself  so  immutably  to  the  course  of 
the  stream  was  indeed  an  alluring  prospect.  Short 
as  the  distance  was,  however,  White  Flower  was  tired 
when  she  had  descended  the  slope  which  hid  from  her 
sight  the  lodge  that  alone  remained  of  all  her  father's 
people.  The  effort  of  removing  her  garments  seemed 
far  too  great  for  her  fever-wasted  strength,  after  the 
exertion  of  walking;  so  she  stood  hesitatingly  on 
the  brink  of  the  clear,  gravel-bottomed  creek,  glad  of 
the  protection  from  the  fierce  glare  of  the  July  sun, 

[189] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

and  wondering  many  things  that  were  born  of  the 
Summer  and  youth  and  were  touched  with  the  quaint 
phantasies  of  Yellow  Owl's  imageries.  And  more  than 
all,  as  is  the  way  of  all  maids  but  more  especially  of  an 
Indian  maid,  she  wondered  which  one  of  the  many  brave 
young  men  of  her  own  tribe  —  or  of  another  —  would 
find  favor  with  Black  Tomahawk  and  with  her. 

She  had  the  quickness  of  hearing  peculiar  to  her 
race,  but  so  absorbed  was  she  in  her  day-dreaming  that 
she  failed  to  catch  the  light  gliding  fall  of  moccasined 
feet.  She  was  startled  almost  to  the  point  of  screaming 
out  in  terror  when  she  felt  a  presence  too  late  to 
escape  from  it,  and  when  the  soft  restful  light  of  the 
shaded  spot  was  suddenly  and  altogether  blotted  from 
her  vision  by  a  muffling  blanket,  which  made  wholly  in- 
effectual her  low  gasp  of  frightened  protest.  For  she 
became  conscious  that  underneath  the  blanket  a  grip 
of  iron  firmness  imprisoned  her  close,  oh,  very  close,  in- 
deed, to  a  man's  side. 

"  Do  not  struggle,  little  White  Flower,  it  is  I,  your 
lover,  who  hold  you  thus  in  my  blanket,"  crooned  a 
low,  soft  voice  in  her  ear.  "  It  is  thus  I  will  hold  you 
safe  forever.  It  is  thus  I  will  keep  what  is  mine. 
Cease  your  struggling,  little  one.  As  my  warrior 
blanket  now  covers  us  both,  so  my  lodge  will  cover  us 
both  soon.  My  lodge  is  empty,  little  White  Flower. 
It  waits  for  you.  How  long  before  you  will  make  it 
glad,  dear  one,  how  long?  Let  it  be  soon.  It  is  all 
empty  and  dark  and  very  lonely.  Ah,  little  White 
Flower,  I  am  very  strong  and  you  are  very  weak.  It 

[190] 


WOOING    OF    WHITE    FLOWER 

is  not  well  to  struggle.  You  are  very  tired.  Be  still. 
I  will  not  let  you  go.  You  are  mine.  I  have  caught 
you  in  my  blanket.  I  have  won  my  bride  away  from  all 
men.  Running  Bird's  lodge  sings  for  joy!" 

Realizing  the  utter  futility  of  further  physical  strug- 
gle against  the  embrace  of  her  self -avowed  lover,  White 
Flower  finally  lay  spent  and  still  against  his  support- 
ing arm.  But  in  her  eyes  sparkled  a  mutinous  gleam. 
She  threw  up  her  proud  head  so  that  the  blanket  fell 
away  from  her  face  and  Running  Bird's  lean,  fine 
countenance  lighted  swiftly  in  keen  appreciation  of  her 
fragile  loveliness. 

"  Am  I  the  daughter  of  a  low  caste  tribesman,  that  I 
must  be  wooed  so  rudely?  "  she  demanded  with  much 
dignity,  despite  the  handicap  of  her  position.  "  Wa- 
hca-ska  is  not  so  easily  won.  Or  am  I  daughter  of  the 
silly  whites,  to  be  won  by  pretty  talk?  " 

How  could  Running  Bird  know  that  her  heart  was 
fluttering  so  frantically  not  because  of  resentment  but 
because  of  a  great  joy  in  the  acknowledged  love  of  this 
fine,  brave,  lovable  son  of  a  fine,  brave,  lovable  leader 
of  men;  and  because,  too,  of  a  girlish  pride  in  her 
handsome  lover's  superb  strength  and  winning  impul- 
siveness, aye,  and  in  the  primitive  rudeness  of  his  pas- 
sionate claiming  of  his  mate?  But  though  he  did  not 
know  this,  he  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  daunted  by 
her  repulse.  He  could  not  imagine  his  lodge  without 
Wa-hca-ska. 

"  I  bring  my  love  to  you  first,"  he  said,  simply,  "  be- 
cause I  do  not  want  to  buy  my  wife  against  her  will; 

[191] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

and  because  you  are  a  child  of  a  chief  of  the  Yank- 
tonais  and  the  idol  of  his  heart,  you  may  choose  whom 
you  will  wed.  As  for  the  '  pretty  talk,'  I  speak  from 
Bay  heart,  Wa-hca-ska." 

"  You  have  learned  many  things  from  your  white 
friends,"  said  White  Flower,  with  sly  malice.  "  Why 
do  you  not  choose  your  bride  from  among  these  new 
friends?  Your  white  brother  will  help  you.  He  does 
not  like  Wa-hca-ska  because  she  hates  them  all  —  all 
the  white  people ;  and  I  laugh  at  his  gods  —  they  are 
such  silly  things;  and  I  hate  them  because  they  are  so 
cruel  to  the  Dakotas ;  and  I  pray  every  day  to  the  gods 
of  our  fathers  to  rise  up  and  smite  them,  so  that  we  may 
be  free  again.  Your  white  brother  hates  me  for  this. 
He  knows.  He  will  get  you  a  wife  from  among  his 
people  so  that  you  will  altogether  forsake  the  ways  of 
your  own  nation." 

"  The  Slender  Ash  likes  best  that  I  should  wed  one  of 
my  own  people,"  retorted  Running  Bird,  sternly. 
"  Indian  women  many  times  marry  outside  our  race. 
It  is  not  often  a  brave  takes  a  white  woman  to  his  lodge. 
Come  to  me,  little  White  Flower,"  he  pleaded,  looking 
down  from  his  straight,  slim  height  to  her  face  turned 
coquettishly  away  from  his  arm,  so  that  he  could  not 
see  the  quick  response  to  his  plea  in  her  luminous  eyes. 
Taking  advantage  of  a  momentary  loosening  of  his 
grasp,  White  Flower  sprang  away  from,  him,  dexter- 
ously leaping  clear  of  the  enveloping  blanket  as  she 
did  so.  Her  silvery  laugh  rang  out  so  that  up  beyond 

[192] 


WOOING    OF    WHITE    FLOWER 

the  sloping  bank  her  kinswomen  smiled  in  happy  sym- 
pathy. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  big  strong  man,"  she  cried, 
gleefully,  "  or  I  will  run.  And  if  I  am  first  to  my 
mother,  I  will  remain  in  my  father's  lodge  forever  and 
I  know  a  Brule  lodge  that  will  be  empty  for  many  a 
moon.  You  know  Wa-hca-ska  for  a  swift  runner." 

Running  Bird  folded  his  longing  arms,  smilingly, 
and  stepped  back. 

"  It  is  but  a  few  sleeps  since  I  danced  in  the  great 
sun  dance  and  did  not  faint,  but  kept  dancing  until  the 
sun  went  down,  because  I  was  glad  that  a  little  White 
Flower  had  not  withered.  That  place  of  the  dance 
was  very  far  away.  My  young  men  besought  me  to 
go  into  camp  by  some  cool  stream  and  recover  of  my 
wounds.  Many  friends  in  the  wild  camps  offered  me 
hospitality  in  their  lodges.  But  I  knew  where  a  White 
Flower  grew  and  I  could  not  wait.  I  wanted  that 
flower  for  my  own.  I  did  not  want  any  one  else  to 
gather  it.  So  I  came.  Many  miles  my  feet  have  run. 
They  are  very  tired.  I  find  my  White  Flower  fresh 
and  sweet,  waiting  for  me.  I  faint  by  the  wayside. 
I  cannot  take  another  step,  even  though  my  little  White 
Flower  is  just  over  the  way.  I  reach  for  her  but  she 
sways  just  beyond  my  reach.  My  heart  weeps.  What 
shall  I  do?  I  try  to  walk.  I  cannot.  In  despair,  I 
hold  out  my  arms  again,  and  this  time  my  little  White 
Flower  sways  this  way."  Running  Bird  opened  wide 
his  arms  as  he  spoke  and  the  lovelight  in  his  eyes  drew 
13  [  193  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

White  Flower  like  a  magnet  slowly,  slowly,  nearer  and 
nearer  the  danger  line.  He  knew  it  would  be  but 
child's  play  for  him  to  catch  her  if  she  elected  to  run 
for  her  freedom;  but  how  glorious  if  she  would  come 
to  him  now  of  her  own  free  will !  Barely  on  the  safe  side 
of  the  line,  White  Flower  stopped. 

"  I  hate  the  man  you  call  The  Slender  Ash,"  she  said, 
straightforwardly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Running  Bird,  simply. 

"Will  you  hate  him,  too?" 

"  He  is  my  white  brother,"  said  Running  Bird,  with 
quiet  finality. 

"  I  hate  Sun-in-the-hair,"  said  White  Flower." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"Will  you  hate  her,  too?" 

"  She  made  Wa-hca-ska  well.  I  cannot  hate  her  for 
that." 

"  I  do  not  understand !  "  cried  White  Flower,  in  be- 
wildered alarm.  "  How  made  Wa-hca-ska  well?  " 

"  When  you  were  sick  of  the  fever  and  Yellow  Owl's 
conjurations  were  unavailing,  it  was  Sun-in-the-hair's 
medicine  that  drove  away  the  evil  spirit." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  demanded  White  Flower,  in 
quick  resentment.  "  She  had  no  right.  She  has  pois- 
oned me.  Is  that  why  my  mother  makes  for  her  a 
necklace?  She  shall  not.  I  will  not  take  her  medicine. 
It  is  bewitched.  She  has  poisoned  me.  I  shall  die !  " 

There  was  real  dread  in  White  Flower's  trembling 
voice.  Running  Bird  tried  to  soothe  her.  He  told 
her  that  she  would  have  died  as  surely  as  the  sun  shone 

[194] 


WOOING   OF   WHITE    FLOWER 

if  it  had  not  been  for  her  called  Sun-in-the-hair. 
He  knew  it.  Her  mother  knew  it.  Yellow  Owl  knew 
it  but  was  too  selfish  and  cowardly  to  admit  it. 
His  white  brother  knew  it.  Let  her  ask  him.  He  would 
tell  her.  Even  if  she  did  hate  him,  she  knew  he  would 
speak  the  truth.  When  she  was  reasonably  calm  again, 
she  said  bitterly : 

"  I  hate  her,  anyway,  because  she  had  not  the  right. 
I  hate  the  white  man's  gods.  Will  you  hate  them,  too  ?  " 

That  quick,  moved  look  of  sadness  again  fell  over 
Running  Bird's  face. 

"  Not  the  Man  Who  was  nailed  to  the  cross,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  cannot  hate  the  young  Man  Who 
died  on  the  cross.  He  —  did  not  cry  out.  All  the  rest 
I  will  hate  for  your  sake,  Wa-hca-ska,  but  Him  I  can- 
not. He  —  did  not  cry  out." 

Hope  was  dying  in  the  Indian  girl's  Indian  heart  — 
and  she  had  been  so  sure  —  so  sure.  But  because  she 
loved  him  only  less  than  her  sacred  Indian  ideals,  she 
made  one  last  desperate  attempt  to  win  him. 

"  If  there  should  be  a  war,  Running  Bird,  a  real  war 
between  our  people  and  —  our  enemies,  would  you  fight 
on  the  side  The  Slender  Ash  fights  on?  " 

"  The  Slender  Ash  does  not  go  on  the  war-path.  He 
preaches  a  peace  that  shall  be  unending  for  all  peoples. 
But  I  shall  not  fight  on  the  side  the  white  warriors  fight 
on.  Did  you  think  I  would  go  to  war  against  my  own 
people  ?  " 

A  wave  of  joyous  relief  swept  over  the  girl's  face. 
She  took  an  involuntary  step  toward  him. 

[195] 


THE      SPIRIT     TRAIL; 

"  And  you  will  lead  your  young  men  to  war  ?  "  she 
cried,  breathlessly. 

Running  Bird  was  in  sore  straits.  How  he  loved 
this  proud,  scornful  beauty  with  the  Indian  heart! 
How  her  passionate  hatred  of  the  new  ways  and  all 
connected  with  them  stirred  anew  his  own  deep-seated 
loyalty  to  the  Alliance  of  Friends!  Not  only  to  the 
Tetons,  the  first  to  occupy  this  fair  buffalo  land,  with 
their  subsequent  seven  subdivisions;  but  to  all  the  rest 
of  that  mighty  Alliance  which  once  loved  and  fought 
and  hunted  and  lorded  it  over  all  the  country  around 
their  home  villages  at  Mille  Lacs,  who  had  gradually, 
band  by  band,  followed  the  daring  lead  of  the  Tetons 
and  migrated  to  the  gamef ul  prairies  —  first  the  Yank- 
tons,  and  the  Yanktonais,  Wa-hca-ska's  ancestors  — • 
and  lastly  the  four  bands  of  the  Santees.  He  could  ask 
no  fairer  heaven  than  that  all  that  once  proud  Alliance 
be  allowed  to  love  and  fight  and  hunt  and  lord  it  over 
this  vast  Missouri  region,  as  his  ancestors  and  Wa-hca- 
ska's  had  ruled  that  other  land,  when  their  habitat  was 
the  woods  of  the  northern  Mississippi.  But  he  knew 
that  it  was  not  to  be.  So  that  though  his  heart  might 
break  for  the  broken  pride  of  the  Allied  Friends,  as  long 
as  the  Government  to  which  The  Slender  Ash  gave  al- 
legiance kept  faith  and  left  them  in  undisturbed  pos- 
session of  that  portion  of  their  birthright  which  had 
been  pledged  to  them  inviolate  forever  by  sacred  treaty 
after  a  great  council,  so  long  he  would  never  take  up 
arms  against  that  Government.  Thus  his  race  would 
escape  total  extinction,  might  indulge  in  a  fair  degree 

[196] 


WOOING    OF    WHITE    FLOWER 

its  nomadic  propensities,  and  could  enjoy  to  the  fullest 
extent  its  old-time  independence  and  passionately  loved 
freedom.  If  in  time  it  came  to  accept  the  white  man's 
gods  and  some  of  his  ways,  it  would  not  be  because  they 
were  forced  upon  them.  And  might  it  not  only  serve  to 
make  them  the  wiser  and  the  stronger,  so  that  his  nation 
would  not  be  the  less  Indian  but,  perhaps,  as  mighty  and 
as  many  as  the  white  race?  The  Great  Father  had 
approached  dangerously  near  a  breach  of  faith  when, 
in  direct  violation  of  the  plain  terms  of  the  treaty  which 
forbade  the  trespassing  of  any  white  persons  upon  their 
preserves,  Custer  had  been  sent  on  a  non-understood 
occupation  of  their  cherished  Black  Hills.  But  Hugh 
Hunt  had  said  the  Great  Father  would  keep  faith.  The 
Slender  Ash  always  spoke  the  truth.  He  had  said  only 
cowards  lied.  He  had  said,  "  Wait  a  little  and  you  will 
understand."  Perhaps  it  was  that  the  White  Robe  had 
some  waJcan  power  that  would  keep  the  white  man  from 
their  treasure  chest.  Any  way,  he  trusted  The  Slender 
lAsh.  He  would  wait  a  little  to  understand. 

Something  of  all  this  crowded  through  Running 
Bird's  brain  as  he  weighed  what  answer  he  should  make 
Wa-hca-ska.  He  could  not  make  her  understand.  Not 
now.  The  women  stayed  close  to  the  lodges.  They 
could  not  see  things  as  they  were,  as  the  men  could. 
But  he  thought  that  if  Wa-hca-ska  did  not  come  to  his 
lodge  he  could  not  bear  it.  He  did  not  know  how  he 
could  live  without  Wa-hca-ska.  He  was  sorely  tried. 

"  As  long  as  my  white  brother's  people  keep  faith, 
I  cannot  fight,"  he  said,  at  last,  sadly. 

[197] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  The  daughter  of  Black  Tomahawk  wants  a  man  in 
her  lodge,  not  a  coward !  "  cried  White  Flower,  violently. 

After  all,  she  took  him  by  surprise.  He  was  trying 
so  hard  to  think  of  some  word  that  would  win  her  with- 
out denying  his  white  brother  whom  he  had  so  learned 
to  love  on  the  Laramie  Trail.  Quick  as  a  flash,  weak- 
ness forgotten,  her  fleet  feet  seeming  scarcely  to  touch 
the  ground,  she  bounded  up  the  embankment  an^d  was  off 
over  the  prairie  like  the  wind ;  while  from  the  women  in 
front  of  the  tipi  came  an  excited  clapping  of  hands  and 
shrill  cries  of  encouragement  to  the  flying  girl.  They 
thought  it  was  all  a  part  of  the  game,  and  though  they 
cheered  for  Wa-hca-ska  they  thought  Running  Bird 
would  surely  overtake  her,  and  they  hoped  that  it  would 
be  so,  because  they  thought  that  in  her  heart  Wa-hca- 
ska  wanted  it  to  be  so,  too. 

A  moment  Running  Bird  hesitated;  then  he,  too, 
bounded  up  the  slope.  He  caught  her  just  as  she  was 
about  to  throw  herself  through  the  entrance  to  the  tipi. 
Her  kinswomen  had  scattered  to  give  her  right  of  way. 
Their  faces  shone  with  pleased  excitement. 

"  I  shall  never  give  you  up,"  whispered  Running  Bird, 
passionately.  "  I  have  caught  you  again  on  your  own 
dare  and  you  are  mine.  Turn  your  face  to  me,  little 
White  Flower.  I  love  you.  Turn  your  face  to  me." 

White  Flower  was  panting  with  weakness.  She  trem- 
bled so  that  she  could  scarcely  stand.  Indeed,  she  would 
have  fallen  but  for  Running  Bird's  hungry  arms. 
But  she  strained  from  him  and  turned  her  face  away. 

[198] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    STB  ANGER    WHO    CAME    AND    WENT    SILENTLY 

WHILE  in  Yankton,  Locke  put  up  at  the  new 
Merchants'  Hotel.  It  was  an  imposing  look- 
ing structure  for  that  early  day,  when  little  more  than 
a  decade  had  passed  since  the  Great  Outbreak  had  driven 
those  first  hardy  settlers  panic-stricken  into  the  welcom- 
ing and  welcomed  shelter  of  the  mother  city's  hastily 
reared  but  effective  stockade  walls.  Built  of  plain  red 
brick,  square  of  outline,  and  unadorned  save  by  a  nar- 
row balcony  leading  out  from  an  upper  hallway,  it 
fronted  what  was  then  the  main  street  of  the  interesting 
little  town,  with  an  air  both  of  assured  prosperity  and 
of  substantial  hospitality. 

There  sat  with  Locke  one  evening  at  supper  a  young 
fellow  with  a  ready  smile,  but  of  speech  not  so  ready. 
Their  table  was  close  to  a  sunny  south  window  which, 
faced  the  quiet  by-street.  A  languid  breeze,  heavy  with 
odors  from  the  mid-summer  garden  of  a  pretty  cottage 
across  the  way,  faintly  stirred  the  muslin  curtains. 
Perhaps  it  came  as  a  breath  of  home  to  both  men.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  the  pleasant  shade  trees  and  the  sweet 
Summer  flower  gardens  which  belonged  to  him  who  had 
been  one  of  the  Territory's  pioneer  governors,  together 
with  glimpses  of  like  flower  oases,  loved  and  nourished 

[199] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

by  others  of  those  first  families,  brought  to  Locke 
Raynor  a  feeling  of  rest  and  quiet  after  strife  —  the 
calm  and  repose  that  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  old  estab- 
lished order  of  things. 

Locke  was  not  much  of  a  talker  himself.  He  usually 
considered  it  far  too  much  trouble  to  exert  himself  to 
entertain  chance  acquaintances,  who  almost  without  ex- 
ception would  prove  themselves  totally  uninteresting, 
and  who,  running  their  own  races,  tragically  intent  upon 
not  losing  themselves  in  the  network  of  the  world's 
tracks,  would  in  all  likelihood  never  cross  his  path  again. 
It  seemed  such  a  wanton  waste  of  nerve  force  to  babble 
inanities  to  strangers.  However,  at  those  occasional 
times  when  he  took  the  trouble  to  be  strictly  frank  with 
himself,  he  always  acknowledged  that  his  indisposition 
to  be  drawn  into  the  free  passing  back  and  forth  of 
speech  which  prevails  wherever  men  meet  together,  cen- 
tred in  pure  mind-laziness.  But  he  liked  the  young 
fellow  with  the  ready  smile,  the  young  down  on  the 
upper  lip,  and  with  the  straight  back  of  the  regular 
army,  so  that  he  forgot  to  pamper  his  indolence;  and 
besides,  the  breath  of  the  Summer  garden  touching  him 
like  the  memory  of  a  caress,  awakened  an  old  need  of 
companionship  —  a  need  so  ancient  in  its  origin  that 
its  insistent  longing  brought  forth  Eve,  and  so  uni- 
versally essential  in  its  God-made  law  that  men  who,  in 
the  pride  of  their  egoism,  withdraw  themselves  from  the 
.sinning,  striving  world,  undergo  soul  suicide.  Because 
of  this  spontaneous  liking,  he  asked  the  boyish  lieu- 
tenant of  cavalry  whither  he  fared. 

[200] 


THE       SILENT       STRANGER 

"  West,"  said  the  stranger,  with  his  genial  smile. 

"  To  some  of  the  up-river  forts,  doubtless,"  said 
Locke,  indifferent  to  the  real  destination,  and  only  de- 
siring that  for  a  little  while  he  might  have  friendly 
converse  with  this  likable  young  fellow  who  sat  opposite 
him.  Perhaps  the  desire  for  companionship  would  wane 
with  the  waning  of  the  odor  of  those  flowers  over  there ; 
but  even  so,  he  need  not  then  follow  his  new  acquaint- 
ance to  the  lobby  for  an  after-dinner  cigar.  Business 
was  always  an  excusable  pretext. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  stranger. 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  the  young  officer 
placidly  ate  a  juicy  steak  and  Locke  watched  him  cov- 
ertly and  curiously. 

"  My  name  is  Locke  Raynor,"  he  said,  suddenly  and 
easily.  "  I  am  returning  to  Big  Bend  Agency  to-mor- 
row. I  am  employed  there  in  a  minor  capacity.  It  is 
Agency  business  that  called  me  to  Yankton.  If  you 
happen  to  be  faring  my  way,  I  shall  be  glad  of  your 
company.  I  heard  you  asking  for  a  horse;  so  I  judge 
that  you,  like  me,  intend  taking  the  trail  by  land  rather 
than  by  sea." 

"  Yes,  and  still  west,"  responded  the  stranger,  glanc- 
ing up  a  moment  to  smile  radiantly.  "  My  name  is 
Brian  Levering." 

"  Oh,"  said  Locke,  and  desisted  in  his  efforts  toward 
establishing  a  friendly  basis  of  communication.  But 
he  went  with  him  to  the  smoker,  nevertheless,  and  it  was 
over  their  cigars  that  the  stranger  confessed  that  he 
was  really  going  Locke's  way,  and  that  he  was  much 

[201] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

pleased  with  the  prospect  of  company  for  such  a  con- 
siderable slice  of  his  long  and  tedious  journey  overland. 
Then  he  said  good-night  buoyantly  and  went  upstairs 
to  bed. 

Night  was  near  when  they  arrived  at  the  old  road- 
house.  Here  their  trail  was  to  divide,  for  Locke  had 
determined  to  rest  here  for  the  night  and  possibly  to 
employ  the  time  in  doing  a  little  private  detective  work. 
The  house  had  not  long  remained  tenantless.  He  had 
an  irresistible  desire  to  make  some  personal  observations 
of  the  workings  of  the  new  ownership.  The  young 
lieutenant  could  not  wait.  He  had  still  two  good  hours 
before  dark.  He  might  even  ride  all  night  —  if  his 
horse  held  out.  He  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  get  to 
Fort  Lincoln  at  the  earliest  possible  date.  Yes,  he 
would  bide  long  enough  for  a  bite  of  supper  and  that 
was  all. 

Their  supper  of  tinned  stuff  and  black  coffee  disposed 
of,  the  late  companions  set  off  together.  Locke  accom- 
panied the  despatch-bearer  perhaps  a  mile  upon  his  new 
and  thenceforward  lonely  way,  and  then  prepared  to 
return.  Brian  Levering  said  good-night  cheerily, 
turned  to  the  north  again,  and  rode  quietly  forward. 
Locke  watched  him  a  moment,  the  low  sun  glinting  on 
his  rifle  barrel,  until  a  dip  in  the  broken  trail  hid  him 
from  view.  Brian  Levering  never  once  looked  back. 
He  rode  steadily  forward,  his  young  face  ever  to  the 
north.  With  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  something 
that  was  deeper  than  lonesomeness,  Locke  rode  slowly 
back  to  the  road-house.  A  short  three  days  had  they 


THE       SILENT       STRANGER 

been  comrades.  "  And  after  that  the  dark."  He  cared 
for  his  horse,  went  again  into  the  house,  and  enquired 
if  he  might  have  a  corner  of -the  floor  for  a  bed.  The 
new  keeper,  a  quiet,  methodical  man  past  middle  age, 
assented  to  the  request  without  parley  and  Locke  spread 
his  saddle  blanket  on  the  floor  with  his  saddle  for  a  pil- 
low, and  tired  out  from  his  days  of  riding,  soon  fell 
asleep. 

He  was  awakened  some  time  in  the  night  by  the  loud 
slamming  of  a  door  and  the  sound  of  a  man  stumbling 
about  in  the  dark,  cursing  with  vigor  and  calling  upon 
the  keeper  of  the  house  to  get  up  and  strike  a  light  and 
give  him  something  to  eat.  He  lay  still,  wondering  who 
travelled  so  late  and  hoping  the  noise  and  confusion 
would  n't  last  through  the  night  but  would  subside  soon 
so  that  he  once  more  might  sink  his  drowsy  senses  in  that 
pleasing  sleep  which  was  too  deep  for  dreams  and  too 
essential  to  take  kindly  to  disturbance.  He  could  hear 
the  old  keeper  shuffling  out  of  his  bed  in  an  adjoining 
room  and  imagined  that  he  was  making  some  special 
effort  at  haste  as  if  that  mouthy  midnight  prowler  might 
prove  to  be  a  guest  of  distinction  after  all.  Probably 
the  highly  colored  insistence  of  the  newcomer's  demands 
carried  convincing  proof  that  at  any  rate  he  meant  to 
have  the  old  man's  attendance  and  that  right  soon,  willy 
nitty.  Compliance  in  either  case  being  the  better  part 
of  valor,  the  keeper  was  soon  in  the  room  and  had  lighted 
a  lantern,  the  dull  gleam  through  the  cloudy  glass  of 
which  disclosed  a  scantiness  of  apparel  that  told  the  tale 
of  the  unwonted  haste.  It  also  disclosed  something  of 

[203] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

far  more  import  to  Locke  than  old  Bob  Bent's  laugh- 
able appearance.  The  traveller  was  Peter  Dorsey. 

No  sooner  had  the  dim  light  flared  out  than  Peter 
glowered  through  the  murky  gloom  to  ascertain  if  any 
others  were  before  him  and,  if  so,  who  such  wayfarers 
might  be.  The  shadowy  figure  in  the  corner  pillowed 
on  a  saddle  attracted  his  attention  immediately  and  he 
swaggered  over  insolently  to  see  for  himself  who  else 
had  sought  shelter  under  old  Bob's  roof  that  night. 

"  It  is  just  as  well,"  thought  Locke,  "  that  my  friend 
Peter  does  n't  know  that  I  know  that  he  has  come  back." 
Aloud,  he  muttered  drowsily  to  the  peering  face,  "  What 
on  earth  are  you  making  such  an  infernal  racket  about? 
Can't  you  let  a  fellow  sleep  a  little  ?  I  'm  dead  tired," 
and  turned  over  on  his  saddle  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 
But  underneath  his  drooping  lids  in  the  half  light,  he 
saw  a  look  of  quick  recognition  pass  over  the  counten- 
ance of  Peter,  followed  by  an  expression  of  such  concen- 
trated hate  that  as  if  in  panoramic  review,  Locke  saw 
again  a  rickety  wagon  with  its  three  inmates  beginning 
its  slow  climb  to  the  uplands,  saw  the  twilight  gathering 
in  the  valley  adding  intensity  to  Peter's  last  long  gaze 
of  bitter  enmity,  and  saw  again  Running  Bird's  calm 
face  as  he  glided  silently  back  into  the  young  timber  of 
American  Creek.  He  would  not  have  been  greatly  sur- 
prised to  feel  the  cold  touch  of  a  steel  blade  searching 
for  his  spot  of  life,  or  to  see  a  sudden  bright  flash  of 
struck  powder  before  the  great  dark  came.  He  had  an 
almost  ungovernable  impulse  to  spring  to  his  feet,  grap- 

[204] 


THE       SILENT       STRANGER 

pie  with  that  look  of  hate,  and  fight  for  his  life.  In  a 
moment,  he  would  have  made  the  leap  regardless  of  con- 
sequences; but  before  that  moment  was  gone,  Peter 
Dorsey  turned  sullenly  away.  Locke's  arm  crept  softly 
down  till  he  felt  the  reassuring  touch  of  cold  iron  in 
that  better  place  —  his  right  hand  —  and  he  was  con- 
tent. 

"  Here,  you,  Bob,  sling  some  grub  together  and  be 
quick  about  it !  "  cried  Peter,  peremptorily.  "  I  have  n't 
all  night  to  throw  away  in  passin'  pleasantries  to  your 
old  hide,  damn  you !  Wrap  it  up  pretty  sudden  now !  " 

"  To  be  sure,  Pete,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  old  man, 
obeying  the  peremptory  behest  with  hands  that  trembled 
in  their  awed  eagerness.  "  But  I  should  think  you  'd 
eat  right  here  fust  and  then  stay  all  night.  I  can  ac- 
commodate you  fine.  The  other  gentleman  there  did  n't 
care  for  a  bed.  You  stay  now." 

"Well,  I  won't,  that's  all,"  replied  Peter,  shortly. 
"  I  'm  on  my  way  to  Yankton  and  have  n't  time  to  fool 
away,  as  I  told  you  before.  And  besides,"  he  added, 
with  ironical  significance,  "  I  should  hate  to  crowd  the 
gentleman"  He  threw  out  with  an  elaborate  flourish 
a  bill  with  which  to  settle  the  score,  gathered  up  his 
change  and  the  grub  package,  and  passed  out  into  the 
night. 

The  keeper  blew  out  the  flickering  lantern  and  plodded 
back  to  bed;  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  sleep  came 
again  to  Locke  Raynor.  He  lay  awake  listening  for 
the  sound  of  returning  footsteps,  but  no  sound  came. 

[205] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

The  awful  stillness  of  isolation  once  more  settled  down 
upon  the  valley  and  stole  into  the  quiet  house,  and  after 
a  while  Locke  slept. 

He  resumed  his  journey  early  in  the  morning.  Long 
before  noon,  he  had  arrived  at  the  Agency,  made  his 
report,  dressed  for  the  midday  dinner,  and  still  had 
ample  leisure  in  which  to  speculate  upon  the  chances  of 
his  retention  or  dismissal,  now  that  his  errand  was  run. 

He  was  still  speculating  two  or  three  days  afterwards 
while  at  work  in  the  office,  when  the  door  opened  and 
Major  Mendenhall  entered,  accompanied  by  Special  In- 
spector Warlick  and  a  stranger  whom  the  Agent  intro- 
duced as  the  United  States  Marshal.  Locke  shook  hands 
cordially.  He  knew  something  of  the  Marshal's  history. 
The  man's  big  figure  and  clear,  penetrating  eyes  and 
determined  chin  tallied  with  the  ideal  engendered  by  a 
knowledge  of  his  deeds.  There  was  no  physical  re- 
semblance between  the  United  States  Marshal  and  that 
young  lieutenant  of  cavalry  who  had  ridden  with  Locke 
to  the  parting  of  the  ways,  unless  it  was  in  a  certain  un- 
fathomable look  of  purpose  in  the  cheery  brave  eyes  of 
the  boy,  which  found  a  counterpart  in  the  older,  sadder, 
more  worldly  eyes  of  the  Marshal;  and  yet  strangely 
enough,  Locke  found  himself  thinking  so  strongly  of 
Brian  Levering  that  he  could  not  but  wonder. 

"  I  understand  that  you  are  quite  recently  returned 
from  a  business  trip  to  Yankton,"  said  the  Marshal, 
pleasantly,  though  there  was  a  deepening  of  the  hint  of 
sadness  in  the  keen  eyes. 

[206] 


THE       SILENT       STRANGER 

"  Yes,"  replied  Locke.  "  I  rode  both  ways.  One 
grows  gray  waiting  for  a  steamboat." 

"  You  did  not  ride  back  alone,  however  ?  " 

"  No.  I  met  a  young  fellow  in  Yankton  who  was 
most  excellent  company.  He  was  going  my  way  so  we 
fared  forth  together."  ' 

"  What  was  his  name?  You  will  pardon  my  seem- 
ingly rude  curiosity  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  strongly 
interested  in  that  young  man.  I  want  to  know  more 
about  him.  I  confess  to  you  frankly  that  such  is  the 
object  of  my  visit  to  you  this  afternoon." 

"  His  name  is  Brian  Levering,"  said  Locke,  surprised. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  in  the  network  of  the  world's  tracks, 
his  path  might  cross  this  boy's  again. 

"  He  was  an  army  officer,  was  he  not  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  a  lieutenant  of  cavalry." 

"  And  he  was  bearing  special  despatches  to  Fort 
Abraham  Lincoln  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  did  not  ask  his  business,"  said 
Locke,  simply. 

The  Marshal  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him  from  under 
grizzled  brows. 

"  Three  days  in  his  company  and  yet  do  not  know  his 
business !  "  he  exclaimed,  thoughtfully.  "  He  must  have 
been  a  surly  fellow." 

"  On  the  contrary !  "  cried  Locke,  warmly,  "  he  was 
one  of  the  friendliest  fellows  I  ever  knew.  He  did  not 
ask  me  my  business  either,  but  I  told  him.  I  am  afraid 
I  told  him  a  lot.  Maybe  I  did  n't  give  him  a  chance 

[207] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

to  talk  about  himself,"  he  concluded,  smiling  a  little 
dubiously. 

"  Did  you  know  where  the  young  man  was  going  when 
you  parted  company  ?  " 

"Not   definitely.     He  went  north.     I  inferred  that 
he  was  bound  for  one  of  the  up-river  forts." 
"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  now?  " 
"  No." 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  the  United  States  Marshal. 
"Dead!"  echoed  Locke,  with  an  uncomprehending 
stare.     "  Dead !  "  he  repeated,  mechanically. 

"Yes,  dead,"  said  the  Marshal.  "He  was  found 
murdered  the  very  next  day,  only  a  very  few  miles  from 
that  old  shack  near  the  Crossing.  I  learned  upon  in- 
vestigation that  you  and  he  had  separated  at  the  Cross- 
ing after  journeying  thus  far  together.  As  the  last 
man  seen  with  Brian  Levering,  I  have  come  to  you  at 
once  to  ask  you  to  tell  me  all  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  your  trip  together,  and  whether  he  said  or 
did  anything  to  lead  you  to  suspect  that  he  feared  foul 
play,  and  if  so,  from  what  source.  We  have  as  yet  no 
clue.  We  think  his  death  may  have  been  retributory 
—  as  an  Indian  looks  at  those  things.  The  Maj  or, 
here,  inclines  to  the  opinion  that  this  young  life  was 
sacrificed  because  of  the  vow  of  some  aggrieved  red  man 
who  in  quick  retaliation  for  some  wrong,  real  or  fancied, 
had  sworn  to  kill  the  first  white  man  he  saw.  It  has 
happened.  Brian  Levering  met  his  death  by  the  foulest 
treachery.  He  was  shot  in  the  back.  It  must  have  been 
from  ambush.  The  Major  is  brokenhearted  to  think 

[208] 


THE       SILENT       STRANGER 

it  happened  among  the  presumably  peaceful  and  friendly 
Agency  Indians  —  before  the  hostile  country  was  even 
sighted." 

"  Dead !  "  repeated  Locke,  wonderingly.  "  Dead  i 
He — "  his  voice  broke  a  little,  "he  was  a  good  com- 
rade." 


[209] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  POT  OF  GOLD  AT  THE  RAINBOW'S  END 

course,"  said  Mr.  Warlick,  oilily,  "you  will 
not  object  to  the  Marshal's  searching  you, 
just  to  satisfy  public  sentiment  and  to  avoid  any  un- 
pleasant contingencies  which  might  possibly  arise  in 
the  future.  Such  a  search,  we  all  understand,  will  be 
entirely  perfunctory;  but  it  is  the  customary  pro- 
cedure and  you  will  doubtless  gladly  conform  to  it." 

Now  it  is  altogether  probable  that  if  the  suggestion 
had  emanated  from  either  of  the  other  two  men,  Locke 
would  have  submitted,  with  the  best  grace  a  free-born 
citizen  may  rally  to  his  support  on  such  a  humiliating 
occasion,  to  the  indignity  which  stern  necessity  so  often 
imposes  upon  innocent  men  with  the  high  justification 
that  the  right  may  ultimately  triumph;  but  coming  as 
it  did,  from  the  source  it  did,  conformity  to  it  was  not 
to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment. 

"  I  certainly  do  object,"  he  said,  decidedly.  "  I  have 
not  been  suspected  of  the  least  complicity  in  the  affair, 
so  there  is  absolutely  no  reason  for  such  a  course  as 
you  suggest.  Under  the  circumstances,  I  should  con- 
sider such  an  act  a  piece  of  impertinence  which  I  could 
not  readily  overlook.  Decidedly,  Mr.  Inspector.  I  ob- 
ject to  the  imputation  which  a  search  would  imply." 

[210] 


THE        POT        OF         GOLD 

"  I,  too,  feel  that  it  would  be  an  unnecessary  insult,'* 
agreed  the  Agent,  loyally.  "  Only  a  suspicion  of  guilty 
knowledge  could  possibly  warrant  such  a  proceeding." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Warlick,  suavely,  "  there  is 
an  imputation  which  might  very  naturally  be  applied  to 
a  man  who  was  last  seen  with  a  man  found  murdered  the 
next  morning.  I  do  not  make  such  an  application,  I 
assure  you.  I  only  mention  what  conclusions  disin- 
terested persons  might  very  readily  reach  after  having 
become  acquainted  with  the  last  known  events  con- 
nected with  the  poor  young  man's  last  night  upon  earth." 

The  Marshal,  who  as  yet  had  said  nothing  on  the 
disputed  subject,  hereupon  turned  the  full  gleam  of  his 
penetrating  eyes  first  upon  the  Special  Inspector  and 
then  upon  Locke  Raynor. 

"  I  think  you  'd  better  let  me  get  into  your  pockets," 
he  said  briefly. 

Locke  flushed  resentfully.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
haughtily  differing  with  the  United  States  Marshal  when 
that  great  reader  of  men  added  with  apparent  uncon- 
cern, "  You  see  —  it  might  save  trouble  later  on." 

And  Locke,  looking  savagely  upon  the  smooth  lit- 
tle man  with  the  shining  boots,  was  yet  wise  enough  to 
realize  that  the  Marshal  was  right  when  he  said,  **  You 
see  —  it  might  save  trouble  later  on."  So  he  resisted 
the  impulse  to  seize  the  man  by  the  collar  and  shake  him 
till  the  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses  should  shiver  to  pieces 
on  the  rough  cottonwood  flooring  and  until  the  polished 
boots  should  dance  a  double  shuffle  amidst  the  crystal 
debris. 

[ail] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Go  ahead,"  he  said,  tersely  enough,  to  the  Marshal. 

"  I  '11  be  as  gentlemanly  as  I  can,"  apologized  the 
Marshal,  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  playing  around  his  keen 
eyes. 

He  pulled  out  a  linen  handkerchief  and  squinted  care- 
lessly at  the  plainly  written  word  in  a  corner  of  the  hem. 
Locke  smiled  with  a  quick  relief  when  the  Marshal  said, 
"  Raynor  —  as  plain  as  day.  Now  the  lieutenant's 
name  was  Levering  —  Brian  Levering."  It  was  a  re- 
lief from  a  danger  that  had  not  been  remembered  until 
the  Marshal's  deft  hands  had  shaken  out  the  white  folds. 
He  had  been  systematically  destroying  marked  linen 
since  his  residence  at  the  Agency  but  something  might 
have  escaped  his  vigilance. 

"  You  see,"  pursued  the  Marshal,  replacing  after  a 
cursory  glance  a  handful  of  small  silver,  "  the  boy  had 
a  relative  in  Yankton  —  a  half-brother.  This  brother 
called  to  see  him  after  Brian  had  gone  upstairs  that 
night  at  the  hotel.  They  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening 
together,  The  brother  is  an  unmarried  man  running  on 
the  railroad.  He  can  identify  some  of  the  things  Brian 
carried  with  him.  For  instance  — " 

He  was  carelessly  fingering  some  bank  notes  in  a 
bill  book  when  the  pause  came.  It  was  an  ominous 
quiet  after  the  easy  flow  of  explanations.  He  had  been 
talking  thus  freely  to  pass  the  time  and  he  had  been  a 
little  haunted,  too,  with  the  thought  of  the  boy  who 
was  found  dead  in  a  lonely  valley.  When  he  began 
with  "  For  instance,"  he  had  not  dreamed  that  he  would 
find  anything.  He  was  not  looking  for  anything. 

[212] 


THE        POT        OF        GOLD 

The  shock  of  the  discovery  held  him  dumb.  He  did  not 
even  glance  at  Locke.  Instead,  he  stared  thoughtfully 
and  for  a  long  time  at  what  he  held  in  his  hands. 
Gradually,  his  already  stern  mouth  hardened  yet  more. 
His  lips  drew  together  in  a  thin  line.  Slowly,  he  drew 
the  handkerchief  once  more  from  the  young  man's 
pocket.  Special  Inspector  Warlick  was  like  a  hawk 
hovering  greedily  by,  ready  to  swoop  down  upon  his 
victim  when  the  time  should  be  ripe.  Locke  gripped 
the  back  of  his  chair  hard  —  gripped  it  until  the  pres- 
sure brought  out  bloodless  streaks  on  his  hands.  Had 
he  blundered  after  all?  Slowly,  the  Marshal's  eyes 
turned  to  the  name  in  the  corner.  His  face  was  a  study. 
Warlick  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  leaned 
over  softly.  His  eyes  were  agleam  with  fiendish  curi- 
osity. Suddenly,  the  Marshal  crumpled  the  square  of 
linen  in  his  hand  and  slipped  it  into  an  inner  pocket  of 
his  own  with  every  appearance  of  absent-mindedness. 
When  he  looked  at  it  before  and  replaced  it  indifferently 
where  he  had  found  it,  he  thought  that  the  Indian  coun- 
try was  full  of  men  who  did  not  answer  to  the  names 
written  for  them  on  time-yellowed  pages  of  family 
Bibles  in  the  old-fashioned  chirography  of  an  earlier 
generation.  He  had  been  thoroughly  imbued  also  with 
the  notion  that  the  murder  was  an  Indian  one,  even 
though  the  short  brown  hair  of  the  scalp-lock  had  not 
been  touched  by  profane  and  blood-crazed  hands. 
Many  things  might  have  happened  to  prevent  the  red- 
skin from  carrying  off  his  trophy.  This  time,  as  he 
absent-mindedly  swept  the  handkerchief  from  the  greedy 

[213] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

gaze  of  the  Inspector,  he  believed  from  the  depths  of 
his  soul  that  Locke  Raynor  was  guilty.  He  kept  on 
believing  it  for  many  and  many  a  long  day.  Thus  it 
was  that  he  snapped. out  to  the  Agent  as  if  there  had 
been  no  halt  in  his  remarks  and  ignoring  the  Inspector 
with  contemptuous  indifference  to  his  presence  or  in- 
terest in  the  affair : 

"  For  instance,  this  bank  note  I  now  hold  in  my  hand. 
You  will  readily  see,  Major,  how  peculiarly  it  is  muti- 
lated. It  is  strange  how  dependent  this  big  world  is 
upon  little  things  and  how  tiny  a  card  sometimes  may 
call  a  gigantic  bluff.  Michael  Levering  described  just 
such  a  bill  as  is  this  to  me  as  being  among  his  brothers 
effects  when  he  left  him  at  twelve  o'clock  the  night  be- 
fore the  two  young  fellows  left  the  capital.  And  it  is 
the  awful  irony  of  fate  that  this  same  bill  was  one  of 
those  given  by  Michael  to  Brian  because  the  elder 
brother  thought  the  younger  would  fare  better  through 
this  wild  region  if  he  were  better  supplied  with  lucre. 
Michael  remembers  it  so  well  because  he  contemplated 
turning  it  into  the  Treasury  but  decided  to  pass  it  on 
once  more  and  let  the  other  fellow  take  the  trouble." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Locke,  with  a  smile  that  was  abso- 
lutely unforeshadowed  of  the  trouble  which  was  to  be 
his  allotment  in  the  Indian  country,  "  it  is  preposterous 
to  connect  me  in  any  way  with  that  atrocious  murder. 
I  do  not  suppose  that  you  do,  but  your  official  duty 
demands  that  you  identify  this  bank  note  and  endeavor 
to  trace  it  back  through  the  hands  through  which  it  has 
passed  since  Michael  Levering  gave  it  to  his  brother. 

' 


THE        POT         OF         GOLD 

I  do  not  blame  you  in  the  least  though  I  confess  for 
oilier  reasons,  understand  me,  for  other  altogether  in- 
nocent reasons,"  he  looked  straight  at  the  Marshal  as 
he  spoke,  "  primarily,  the  inalienable  right  of  a  man 
to  his  own  business,  I  did  at  first  strongly  object  to 
being  searched.  This  finding  of  yours  has  changed 
everything.  I  am  now  as  keen  for  the  scent  as  you 
could  possibly  be.  We  will  run  it  down  together.  My 
honor  demands  that  my  possession  of  this  bill  be  ex- 
plained away.  I  confess  to  you  honestly,  Marshal  and 
Major,  that  I  have  not  the  slightest  memory  of  having 
ever  seen  this  note  before." 

"  By  far  the  wisest,  the  surest,  and  the  quickest  way 
is  for  my  good  friend,  the  Marshal,  to  take  Mr.  Raynor 
and  the  bill  both  to  Yankton  where  Mr.  Raynor  can  ex- 
plain his  possession  to  much  better  advantage  to  the 
Grand  Jury  which  is  most  fortunately  sitting  there  now," 
put  in  Mr.  Warlick,  complacently. 

"  Damn  you,  Warlick,  keep  out  of  this,  will  you  ?  " 
cried  Locke,  in  deep  disgust.  "  If  you  don't,  I  '11  kick 
you  out.  The  United  States  Marshal  is  a  competent 
officer.  He  does  n't  need  any  assistance  from  you." 

He  was  very  angry.  He  did  not  remember  having 
ever  been  so  angry  before.  Special  Inspector  Warlick 
had  so  small  a  soul  and  so  big  a  manifestation  of  it. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much  to  be  wondered  at.  How 
small  were  fleas  and  mosquitoes  and  such  like;  but  how 
big  their  manifestation  of  themselves  in  their  bite ! 

"  I  think,"  he  continued,  more  calmly  and  again  ad- 
dressing the  two  to  the  exclusion  of  the  Inspector,  "  that 

[215] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

I  know,  however,  and  can  prove  beyond  question  just 
when  and  where  that  bill  came  into  my  possession. 
When  Brian  Levering  and  I  parted  company,  I  stopped 
for  the  night  at  that  disreputable  road-house  near  the 
Crossing.  I  had  known  the  place  before.  I  had  had 
occasion,  acting  under  orders  from  Major  Mendenhall, 
as  he  will  readily  recall,  to  hand  three  low-down, 
ornery  cusses  their  walking  papers.  They  were  habitual 
offenders.  They  had  been  smuggling  whiskey  con- 
stantly into  the  Reservation  and  selling  it  to  the  In- 
dians. I  was  accompanied  on  that  memorable  occa- 
sion by  a  missionary,  one  Hugh  Hunt.  Perhaps  you 
know  him.  We  threatened  them  with  the  law  if  they 
did  not  cross  the  border  that  night.  After  all,  it  might 
have  been  better  to  get  the  law  after  them  in  the  first 
place.  Perhaps,  if  we  had  —  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there  now.  In  the  Indian  country,  it  sometimes 
happens  that  there  is  not  enough  law  to  go  round; 
or  if  there  is,  it  does  not  always  go  the  rounds.  It 
is  far  from  being  a  peace-pipe  in  that  respect.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  we  considered  a  moving  on  with  a 
little  kick  to  accelerate  the  movement,  the  simplest  and 
surest  way  of  getting  rid  of  the  obnoxious  characters. 
So  we  did  the  kicking  and  they  did  the  moving.  When 
I  stopped  at  the  house  on  my  way  back  from  Yank- 
ton,  there  was  a  new  man  installed  —  a  fellow  by  the 
name  of  Bob  Bent.  I  never  saw  him  before.  I  went 
to  bed  on  my  saddle  in  the  corner.  Along  in  the  night, 
I  was  awakened  by  a  great  stamping  and  loud  talking, 
and  who  should  come  in  but  Peter  Dorsey.  He  ordered 

[216] 


THE         POT         OF         GOLD 

a  lunch  which  he  took  with  him.  He  said  he  was 
en  route  to  Yankton.  I  wondered  where  he  had  been 
hiding  all  this  time  and  my  mind  was  thoroughly  made 
up  to  run  him  down  again  and  investigate  his  in- 
tentions as  soon  as  I  could  again  leave  the  Agency. 
Some  money,  of  course,  changed  hands.  I  was  n't 
caring  to  be  recognized  just  then  so  I  lay  low  and 
did  n't  squint  an  eye  at  the  operation.  But  the  next 
morning,  having  no  change,  I  had  to  throw  down  a 
greenback  of  a  somewhat  large  denomination  —  twenty 
dollars,  I  think.  I  got  a  couple  of  bills  in  return  and 
some  small  silver.  I  never  looked  at  them  twice.  I 
have  no  idea  what  he  charged  me  for  my  accommoda- 
tions. I  did  not  ask  him.  I  did  not  even  count  the 
change.  But  I  do  remember  opening  that  bill  book 
to  stow  away  two  bills,  so  I  must  have  received  them 
ifi  exchange.  I  think  you  would  do  well  to  put  Peter 
Dorsey  under  arrest.  At  all  events,  interview  old  Bob 
Bent  as  the  next  link  in  the  chain  to  me.  He  can 
doubtless  inform  you  from  whom  this  bill  came  to  him. 
Travel  through  the  Reservation  is  not  so  great  that  he 
should  forget." 

"  It  was  too  bad  you  did  n't  kick  a  little  harder. 
You  see  he  came  back,"  said  the  Marshal,  dryly. 

"  Yes,  he  came  back,"  rejoined  Locke,  wearily,  seem- 
ing to  see  the  fair  young  face  of  the  lieutenant  of 
cavalry  lying  all  night  alone  under  the  Summer  stars 
—  surrounded  by  looming  masses  of  dark  hills  which 
seemed  doubly  solemn  and  lonely  in  the  cool,  mysterious 
half  light  of  the  moon  and  stars. 

[217] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  I  shall  investigate,  all  in  good  time,  Peter  Dor- 
sey's  excuse  for  encumbering  the  earth,  and  shall  inquire 
especially  as  to  his  doings  on  the  night  in  question," 
said  the  Marshal.  "  In  the  meantime,  you  will  please 
prepare  to  accompany  me  to  Yankton  to-morrow. 
You  will  understand  that  under  the  circumstances  there 
is  nothing  for  me  to  do  other  than  to  keep  you  in  charge 
until  this  matter  has  been  thoroughly  looked  into." 

"  I  understand.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  go,"  said 
Locke,  quietly. 

"  What  did  you  say  about  a  boat,  Major?  "  asked  the 
Marshal,  briskly. 

"  There  ought  to  be  a  boat  along  to-morrow  or  next 
day,"  replied  the  Major,  "  if  she  has  n't  struck  a  snag 
or  a  sand-bank." 

"  If  she  is  not  in  by  the  day  after  to-morrow,  we  '11 
ride,"  said  the  Marshal,  with  official  brevity. 

The  steamer  came  into  port  in  the  early  morning  and 
in  an  hour  or  two  was  again  ready  to  continue  her 
journey  down  the  river.  As  her  warning  whistle  blew, 
two  men  came  out  of  the  office  together.  Locke  was 
not  suffering  from  any  sense  of  shame.  He  was  alto- 
gether innocent.  That  he  was  the  last  man  seen  with 
Brian  Levering  was  unfortunate  only  in  that  it  caused 
him  some  little  personal  inconvenience.  It  seemed  a 
little  odd  that  he  should  have  been  so  possessed  to  make 
friends  with  the  Lieutenant  that  quiet  evening  at  the 
supper  table.  But  so  it  had  happened,  and  they  had 
gone  forth  together.  For  three  days  they  had  been 
congenial  companions.  They  had  laughed  and  talked 

[218] 


THE        POT        OF        GOLD 

together,  and  been  still  together;  they  had  eaten  to- 
gether and  drunk  together  and  slept  together;  and 
now,  that  it  was  over,  he  could  not  be  sorry.  He  was 
sorry  that  the  boy  was  gone  but  he  could  not  be  sorry 
that  they  had  fared  together,  e,ven  though  now  he 
must  be  hauled  back  to  Yankton  to  answer  in  some  way 
for  the  boy  who  could  not  answer  for  himself  because 
he  had  been  found  dead  in  a  lonely  valley.  It  was  in- 
evitable that  it  should  be  so.  He  was  the  last  man 
known  to  have  been  with  Brian  Levering.  He  could 
not  quarrel  with  the  justice  which  was  seeking  the  whole 
truth.  He  was  very  glad  to  tell  the  little  he  knew. 
There  was  nothing  for  which  to  hang  one's  head  — 
even  with  the  United  States  Marshal  hovering  so  near 
that  all  who  saw  must  know  that  he  was  virtually  a 
prisoner.  It  was  not  as  if  he  had  been  accused  of 
murder  or  complicity  —  he  was  only  going  to  tell  what 
he  knew  about  the  last  hours  of  Brian  Levering  upon 
earth.  And  the  bank  note  —  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders as  he  strode  out  of  the  door.  That  was  the  least 
of  his  troubles.  He  got  it  in  change  at  the  road-house. 
That  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  explain. 
The  keeper  would  remember  just  when  and  from  whom 
it  came  into  his  till.  Locke  himself  had  not  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  as  to  who  took  that  bill  and  others 
from  the  Lieutenant.  The  thought  of  being  able  to 
make  this  man  answer  for  the  murder  —  this  man  whose 
gigantic  insolence  and  recklessness  had  brought  him 
back,  only  to  step  unwittingly  on  the  key  that  would 
spring  the  trap  that  would  swing  the  noose,  added  zest 

[219] 


THE        SPIRIT,        TRAIL 

to  a  journey  which  otherwise  might  have  been  exceed- 
ingly tedious  and  even  humiliating.  Locke  was  honest 
in  his  thoughts  but  he  had  not  yet  seen  Katharine  Men- 
denhall. 

She  was  standing  on  the  little  porch  of  the  Agent's 
residence  just  across  from  the  office.  She  was  not 
alone.  Hugh  Hunt  was  with  her.  When  he  first  saw 
her,  she  was  smiling  radiantly  and  holding  out  a  hand  in 
greeting.  But  the  Missionary  seemed  grave  enough 
as  he  joined  her  on  the  rude  veranda.  It  seemed  to 
Locke  that  her  hair  never  had  been  so  bright  before  as 
it  was  that  morning  in  early  August,  with  the  sun 
shining  upon  it.  He  threw  up  his  head.  She  should 
see  that  he  was  not  afraid  —  that  he  was  not  walking 
in  the  shadow.  He  stopped  involuntarily. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Raynor,  the  whistle  has  sounded !  "  cried 
the  Marshal,  impatiently. 

Why,  she  must  have  seen  him!  Her  laughing  face 
had  been  turned  his  way.  What  had  Hugh  Hunt  said 
to  her  that  caused  her  face  suddenly  to  grow  as  grave 
as  his  own?  She  had  turned  away  then  without  speak- 
ing to  him  —  to  him  who  loved  her.  He  snapped  his 
lips  on  the  words  of  greeting  and  good-bye,  which  were 
almost  said,  crushed  his  hat  down  over  his  forehead, 
and  hastened  past.  She  had  known  that  he  was  going. 
At  least,  everybody  else  at  the  Agency  knew  it.  She 
must  have  seen  him.  If  she  had  wanted  to,  she  could 
easily  have  smiled  and  said  good-bye  For  the  first 
time,  his  head  drooped  a  little,  a  sense  of  humiliation 
crept  into  his  soul,  and  he  longed  with  all  his  heart  to 


THE        POT        OF        GOLD 

strike  the  United  States  Marshal  into  the  dust  and 
then  hasten  back  to  demand  of  Katharine  Mendenhall 
why  she  had  turned  her  face  away.  Was  it  because 
Hugh  Hunt  was  telling  her  about  the  murder  and  of 
his,  Locke's,  embarrassing  position  in  the  sad  affair? 
And  was  it  possible  that  she  had  no  more  faith  in  him 
than  to  allow  anything  so  purely  circumstantial  as  his 
late  companionship  with  the  man  found  dead  to  under- 
mine the  friendly  and  seemingly  understanding  com- 
radeship which  had  been  theirs  since  that  night  when  the 
wolves  howled  so  dismally?  Or  —  which  seemed  much 
more  likely  to  him  just  then,  so  absolutely  did  he  look 
upon  himself  as  a  man  hastening  to  clear  up  a  dark 
and  hateful  mystery,  not  as  one  slinking  away  in  shadow 
to  stand  trial  for  his  life  —  was  she  listening  to  a  love 
tale  from  the  lips  of  the  pale  priest? 

The  steamer,  having  replenished  its  supply  of  fuel 
from  the  mass  of  cord-wood  heaped  up  on  the  bank  for 
that  purpose,  and  having  taken  on  board  the  few  pas- 
sengers southward  bound  from  this  point,  was  back- 
ing away  from  the  shore  and  from  the  curious  gaze 
of  the  Indians  camping  in  the  vicinity.  It  mattered 
not  now  what  Katharine  Mendenhall  was  hearing  or  say- 
ing. It  was  too  late  for  him  to  help  it  if  he  could.  He 
went  at  once  to  his  stateroom  and  stared  moodily  all  day 
long  at  the  panorama  of  the  swiftly  gliding  shore. 

"  Miss  Mendenhall,"  Hugh  Hunt  was  saying  just 
after  the  warning  whistle  had  blown,  "  General  Custer 
has  found  gold  in  the  Black  Hills ! " 

"Well,  and  why  not?"  asked  Katharine,  carelessly, 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

at  first,  because  she  did  not  understand,  and  because  she 
thought  Locke  Raynor  was  coming  across  to  say 
good-bye.  She  had  come  to  the  front  porch  because  she 
knew  the  steamer  would  be  leaving  very  soon. 

"  I  am  afraid,  are  n't  you?  "  asked  Hugh,  simply. 

He  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  slept  much  during  the 
night.  He  looked  tired  —  body  and  soul  of  him  — 
for  what  he  had  dreaded  had  come  to  pass. 

He  had  been  reading  far  into  the  night  when  the 
news  came  to  him.  Indian  runners  had  come  direct 
from  the  land  of  discovered  gold  and  had  spread  the 
tale  in  every  camp  on  the  way.  Signal  fires  were  already 
burning  —  the  pungent  smoke  rising  slowly  up  into  the 
lazy  air  from  many  a  butte  and  from  many  a  river 
bluff.  They  had  not  halted  at  hostile  camps  only  — 
those  runners.  They  had  continued  to  the  very  Mis- 
souri itself  to  carry  the  astounding  report  to  the  peaceful 
Agency  Indians.  Thus  it  was  that  before  ever  General 
Ouster's  glowing  and  rhapsodical  account  of  the  sur- 
passing beauty  and  fertility  of  the  country  and  of 
the  immense  possibilities  of  his  great  find  had  reached 
military  headquarters  of  the  Department  of  Dakota  at 
St.  Paul,  nearly  every  Indian  on  the  Great  Reserva- 
tion was  possessed  of  the  momentous  fact  of  the  dis- 
covery, and  was  biding  his  time.  There  was  never  lack- 
ing, even  in  the  times  of  the  wildest  upheavals  of 
Indian  disaffection  and  insubordination,  some  good 
friend  among  them  —  half  in  love  with  the  new  God 
brought  to  them  by  the  young  man  who  ate  and  drank, 
who  moved  and  had  his  being,  with  them,  and  altogether 

[<*•] 


THE         POT         OF         GOLD 

in  love  with  the  man  himself  —  to  keep  him  informed 
of  all  that  happened  among  the  Dakotas,  bearing  upon 
the  great  unrest,  so  that  he  was  constantly  in  touch 
with  the  mighty  pulse  of  their  life.  To-night,  it  was 
Running  Bird  himself,  who,  seeing  the  light  burning 
so  late,  glided  up  to  the  window  and  after  standing 
motionless  for  some  time  looking  in  upon  the  quiet 
figure  reading  by  the  table  tapped  lightly  upon  the 
glass.  The  face,  pressed  against  the  lighted  window, 
surrounded  by  black  night,  looked  wild  enough  to 
have  startled  the  bravest;  but  Hugh  Hunt  was  not 
afraid.  He  knew  the  face  at  once.  He  laid  aside  his 
book,  opened  the  door,  and  invited  his  strange  mid- 
night guest  to  enter.  It  was  thus  the  news  came  to 
the  whites  at  Big  Bend  through  Running  Bird,  who  had 
it  of  the  Indian  runners  who  came  straight  from  the  pot 
of  gold  which  man,  in  his  foolish  and  short-sighted 
lust  of  it,  childishly  thinks  lies  at  the  end  of  the  rain- 
bow ;  so  that  he  spends  lifetimes  in  far  and  unprofitable 
journeys.  And  though  countless  ones,  achieving  the 
journey  after  a  weary  round  of  stumblings  and  brier 
pricks,  find  that  they  had  been  lured  on  by  an  impudent 
will-o'-the-wisp  through  whose  mazy,  tantalizing  light 
the  gleam  of  gold  was  falsely  made  to  shine  as  the  real 
light  of  the  world,  still  the  strife  goes  on,  and  the 
journeyings,  and  one  will  not  accept  the  testimony  of 
another  but  each  must  find  out  for  himself. 

Hugh  Hunt  said  to  Running  Bird's  flashing  eyes, 
perturbed  face  and  scornful  soul,  "  Wait  a  little." 

"  The  Slender  Ash  said  that  before.     I  have  waited 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

and  you  see  what  has  come.  Shall  I  wait  forever? 
Am  I  a  fool,  to  listen  forever  to  silly  counsels?  Or  a 
coward,  that  I  am  afraid  to  strike?  " 

And  the  Missionary,  weary,  his  faith  at  low  ebb,  still 
said,  "  Wait  a  little,  Running  Bird." 

When  morning  came,  having  forgotten  to  eat,  he 
went  over  to  the  Agency  to  tell  them  there  of  the  terrible 
thing  which  had  been  told  to  him  in  the  night. 

"  Afraid?  Yes,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Katharine,  smil- 
ing a  little.  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  do  not  understand, 
your  afraid." 

"  It  is  such  an  unreasoning  craze  —  the  craze  for 
gold,"  said  Hugh,  musingly,  "  and  it  is  as  strong  as 
death  —  as  unquenchable  as  prairie  fire  —  as  resistless 
as  many  waters  —  as  heartless  as  Medusa  —  as  faith- 
less as  Judas  Iscariot." 

"  But  if  we  must  have  it,  we  will  buy  the  land  and 
the  Indians  shall  name  their  price  and  there  will  be  no 
trouble  at  all,"  said  Katharine,  with  a  fine  optimism. 

"  The  Dakotas  will  not  sell,"  said  Hugh,  quietly. 

"  Are  you  so  sure?     How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Because  it  takes  three-fourths  of  the  adult  males 
in  all  this  Great  Sioux  Reservation  to  sign  away  any 
part  of  it.  Do  you  think  Red  Cloud,  Spotted  Tail, 
Black  Moon,  Gall,  Sitting  Bull,  Crazy  Horse,  and  a 
hundred  others,  with  all  their  warriors,  to  say  nothing 
of  my  own  Running  Bird  with  his  band  of  proud 
Brules,  will  sign  away  the  very  heart  of  their  posses- 
sions? I  know  them  too  well  to  think  that,  Miss  Men- 
denhall." 


THE        POT         OF         GOLD 

"  Why,"  cried  Katharine,  breathlessly,  "  do  you 
think  we  will  take  it  away  from  them?  Oh,  Mr.  Hunt, 
do  you?  How  can  we?"  It  was  then  that  her  face 
grew  as  grave  as  his  own,  and  it  was  then  that  Locke 
Raynor  wondered  savagely  what  the  Missionary  was 
saying  to  her.  "  We  cannot,  Mr.  Hunt,"  she  contin- 
ued, the  gravity  still  on  her  fair  face;  but  the  eyes 
lifted  to  his  were  serene  in  the  faith  of  youth.  "  My 
country  is  behind  that  treaty.  My  country  has  given 
her  sacred  word;  and  my  country,  why,  my  country  is 
America!  "  she  cried,  a  flush  of  enthusiasm  rising  to  her 
cheeks. 

"  You  are  right,  Miss  Mendenhall,"  said  Hugh,  a 
prophetic  smile  lighting  up  his  worn  features,  "  my 
country  is  America!  The  country  which  through 
blood  and  tears  freed  herself  from  tyranny,  which 
through  blood  and  tears  purged  herself  clean  of  in- 
ternal tumors  of  human  slavery,  that  country  which 
beckons  so  kindly  and  generously  makes  a  home  for 
Slav  and  Teuton  and  Latin,  and  for  all  the  nations  upon 
earth,  will  remember  my  Dakotas  in  their  day ! " 

It  was  one  day  a  little  past  the  middle  of  the  month 
when  Hugh  Hunt  entered  the  office  at  Big  Bend,  where 
he  found  the  sub-agent  in  charge.  Hugh  had  just  re- 
turned from  Yankton  where  he  and  Major  Mendenhall 
had  been  called  in  consequence  of  Locke  Raynor's  arrest. 

"  Do  you  know  if  Running  Bird  is  anywhere  around 
the  Agency  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  called  here  the  other  day  and  asked  for  you," 
replied  the  sub-agent.  "  When  I  told  him  that  you 
15  [  ££5  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

were  down  the  river,  he  said,  '  Tell  my  white  brother 
that  my  heart  is  heavy  and  I  go  to  bury  it  for  a  while 
in  my  own  country.  I  have  sorrow  he  knows  not  of. 
Tell  him  I  will  wait  yet  a  little  while  —  but  I  cannot 
wait  very  long.* ' 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  Mr.  Roberts  ?  "  asked 
Hugh,  joyously. 

"  News  ?  What  news  ?  Do  I  ever  hear  any  news  ? 
Do  grass  and  hills  and  stockade  walls  prattle  news  ?  " 
cried  Roberts,  impatiently.  "  Tell  me  quick,  man,  if 
you  don't  want  me  to  die  of  suspense." 

"  I  thought  you  must  know.  A  steamer  passed 
down  a  few  days  ago,  one  of  my  old  men  just  told  me, 
so  I  supposed  it  had  surely  spread  the  glad  tidings.  I 
heard  it  before  I  left  Yankton.  That  is  why  I  must 
find  Running  Bird.  I  am  afraid  he  has  gone  into  the 
wilderness." 

"Man,  man,  are  you  a  fish?  Can't  you  see  that 
flesh  and  blood  can't  stand  this  harrowing  suspense? 
I  am  growing  into  a  mummy  before  your  very  eyes," 
cried  the  sub-agent,  whimsically.  "  News  ?  The  last 
news  I  have  heard  was  that  a  fellow  by  the  name  of 
Christopher  Columbus  had  discovered  America;  but  I 
heard  afterwards  that  the  claim  could  not  be  properly 
substantiated  for  lack  of  corroborating  witnesses.  So 
I  can't  say  how  it  came  out.  Better  not  quote  me  as 
authority.  There  was  also  a  rumor  awhile  ago  that 
some  fellows  by  the  name  of  Lewis  and  Clarke  had 
climbed  up  this  cursed  river  in  a  boat,  but  I  '11  tell  you 
frankly  that  I  don't  believe  it.  The  idea  is  preposter- 

[226] 


THE         POT         OF         GOLD 

ous.  Nothing  ever  happened  in  this  God-forsaken 
country." 

"  But  the  best  thing  in  all  the  world  has  happened," 
said  Hugh,  and  his  laugh  was  boyish  in  its  glee. 
"  Listen,  man !  General  Sheridan  has  telegraphed  to 
General  Terry,  absolutely  prohibiting  all  white  persons 
from  attempting  to  enter  the  Black  Hills;  and  he  has 
further  instructed  Terry  to  put  forces  along  the  Mis- 
souri and  Platte  Rivers  to  seize  and  destroy  all  outfits 
of  people  who  are  trying  to  sneak  their  way  into  the 
Indian  country,  and  to  send  all  such  offenders  themselves 
to  the  nearest  military  post.  Is  n't  it  almost  too  good 
to  be  true?" 

"Oh!"  said  the  sub-agent,  blankly.  "Is  that  all? 
I  knew  that  before.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  tell 
me  something  interesting." 

"  Yes,  that  is  all,"  replied  Hugh,  with  a  quiet,  rather 
quizzical  smile.  "  I  think  I  have  seldom  heard  such 
good  news  before.  I  must  tell  it  to  Running  Bird." 


[227] 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    BRIDGE-BUILDER 

FIRST,  however,  he  must  report  to  Mrs.  Menden- 
hall  and  Katharine,  and  give  them  the  Agent's 
message,  before  losing  himself,  possibly  for  weeks,  on 
the  trackless  reservation  beyond  the  river.  Running 
Bird  had  gone  into  the  wilderness  to  think  it  all  out  for 
himself.  He  might  even  fast  as  he  had  fasted  those 
several  days  before  his  dream  came  to  him,  peopled 
with  the  god-spirits  that  were  to  shape  and  guide  his 
earthly  pilgrimage  as  a  warrior  of  the  great  Alliance. 
He  was  but  a  stripling  in  those  days,  but  his  fast- 
ing had  been  as  rapt  and  as  consecrated  as  that  of 
many  an  early  Christian,  kneeling  all  day  long  and 
all  night  long  on  a  stone  floor,  praying  for  light, 
lacerating  his  body  with  stinging  whip  lashes  —  still 
praying  for  light;  but  he  had  not  altogether  under- 
stood his  dream.  True,  a  famous  jossakeed  of  his 
tribe  had  rendered  a  sweeping  interpretation  of  it  that 
admitted  no  doubts;  yet,  though  he  voiced  them  not 
aloud,  there  were  many  things  which  Running  Bird 
still  pondered  in  his  heart.  His  intelligence  was  of 
a  so  much  superior  order  than  that  of  the  juggling 
mountebank,  as  his  father's  before  him  had  been,  that 

[228] 


THE    B  R  I  D  G  E  -  B  U  I  L  D  E  R 

Hugh  knew  he  could  not  altogether  adhere  to  the  line 
of  the  old  medicine  man's  wildly  fantastic  translation 
of  the  mysteries  of  the  dream  celebration  of  his  man- 
hood. Hugh  longed  to  find  him  soon.  He  did  not 
want  him  to  fast  again.  Running  Bird  was  still  weak 
from  his  barbarous  but  devoted  celebration  of  the  sun 
dance.  Another  period  of  food  renunciation  might  be 
the  beginning  of  that  decline  which  Hugh  Hunt  fore- 
saw with  a  great  sadness  must  come  to  many  and  many 
of  his  Dakotas  before  the  mighty  transition  should 
be  accomplished,  and  Christianity  —  health  of  soul  and 
body  —  should  stand  triumphant  on  the  fallen  breast  of 
paganism's  dead  and  crumbling  shell.  And  he  could 
not  spare  Running  Bird  yet.  "  Oh,  Elder  Brother  of 
Running  Bird  and  me,  not  yet!  For  it  is  through 
Running  Bird  that  I  would  find  all  the  little  red  brothers 
of  Thee  and  me  who  have  strayed  away  to  play  in  the 
bright  sunshine  of  the  prairies.  The  prairies  are  very 
big,  Elder  Brother,  and  I  could  not  find  them  all  — 
all  the  little  children  —  without  Running  Bird." 

The  Agency  ladies  were  at  home.  They  had  already 
lunched,  and  no  amount  of  persuasion  could  prevail  upon 
Hugh  to  allow  them  to  prepare  anything  for  him  but 
some  army  biscuit,  the  remains  of  a  pan  of  baked  beans, 
and  a  cup  of  coffee.*  There  were  no  hunters  left  in 
camp  and  it  was  many  a  long  day  since  game  had 
appeared  on  the  table  of  Tahu  Tanka. 

"  I  cannot  spare  the  time,"  said  Hugh,  smiling 
deprecatingly. 

"  You  are  always  in  a  hurry,"  chided  Mrs.  Menden- 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

hall,  gently,  her  faded  blue  eyes  surveying  him  very 
kindly.  "  Do  you  never  rest  ?  Now  I,  I  never  find 
anything  to  do  in  this  bleak  and  lonesome  Indian 
country.  I  am  tired  of  resting.  I  should  be  very 
grateful  for  something  to  do ;  but  I  do  not  know  where 
to  look  for  it.  You  will  not  even  let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  trying  to  throw  together  for  you  a  mock 
salad  or  a  soup.  It  would  really  be  a  charity.  You  are 
indefatigable  in  your  Indian  charities.  Do  you  think 
white  people  never  are  in  need?  Or  are  we  beyond  the 
pale?" 

"  Yes,  white  people  do  need  charity,"  said  Hugh,  with 
a  grateful  smile,  reminiscent  of  many  a  little  courtesy 
received  at  the  hands  of  the  Agency  ladies,  mother  and 
daughter,  "  and  I  have  been  the  recipient  of  so  very 
many  since  you  came  that  for  very  shame  I  must  be  up 
and  doing  for  myself.  I  stopped  to-day  only  to  tell 
you  about  the  Major.  He  was  detained  on  important 
business  —  no,  not  connected  with  the  trial  in  any  way 
—  Agency  business  —  so  he  could  not  return  with  me 
at  this  time.  He  sent  a  letter  —  here  it  is  —  and  I  am 
to  tell  you  that  there  is  not  the  least  cause  for  worry 
of  any  kind  while  he  is  absent.  Since  General  Sheridan 
has  kept  the  faith  and  driven  back  all  gold-seekers 
(you  have  heard,  have  you  not?  —  a  steamer  brought 
the  news  from  Bismark,  I  understand;  and  you  were 
altogether  right,  Miss  Mendenhall,  and  you  make  me 
ashamed  of  my  doubtings),  our  Agency  Indians  are 
peacefully  happy  once  more  —  the  Government  thinks 
they  never  were  affected  —  and  the  hostiles  have  quieted 

[230] 


THE    BRIDGE-BUILDER 

down,  too.  You  are  not  to  worry  about  anything,  and 
you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  if  I  go  soon,  now,  to 
find  Running  Bird?" 

"  But  you  are  so  tired,"  said  Katharine,  a  little  wist- 
fully. It  was  all  Running  Bird,  Running  Bird,  Run- 
ning Bird !  After  all,  he  was  only  an  Indian  —  and 
Indians  were  dirty,  without  ambition,  thieving,  treach- 
erous, of  limited  possibilities  of  development,  ungrate- 
ful; while  Hugh  Hunt  was  refined,  scholarly,  with  a 
mind  of  almost  infinite  possibilities,  a  great  heart,  a 
great  faith,  a  great  sincerity.  What  a  waste!  What 
a  waste  to  the  real  world  of  thinking  men  and  women! 
And  then  there  was  Locke  Raynor  —  a  man  of  action* 
of  strong  love  of  life  and  liberty,  a  man  who  knew  the 
world  and  was  endowed  with  a  peculiar  naturalness  to- 
cope  with  its  problems  —  and  Locke  Raynor  was  lan- 
guishing in  prison  —  fettered.  What  a  travesty! 
And  still  it  was  all  Running  Bird,  Running  Bird,  Run- 
ning Bird!  She  had  tried  to  rise  to  the  stature  mea- 
sured for  her  by  this  devotee.  She  had  tried  harder 
than  she  had  ever  tried  anything  before  in  all  her  life. 
But  they  were  impossible,  these  Indians  —  oh,  so  im- 
possible. 

"  And  you  have  not  yet  told  us  how  the  trial  came 
out,"  said  Mrs.  Mendenhall,  only  waiting  for  that  be- 
fore excusing  herself  to  read  the  letter  from  the  bluff 
Major,  who  was  as  much  her  lover  to-day  as  he  had 
ever  been  before  the  heaped  up  years  had  exacted  their 
toll  of  gems  from  her  eyes,  gold  from  her  hair,  and 
buoyancy  from  her  once  lithe  figure.  **  That  poor 

[231] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

young  man!  Was  he  acquitted?  He  was  as  guiltless 
as  you  or  I.  Of  course,  he  would  n't  come  back  here  after 
all  the  trouble,  I  suppose.  He  could  n't  be  blamed  for 
that.  Has  he  gone  back  East?  I  liked  him.  He  was 
so  good  to  us,"  continued  the  gracious  little  lady. 
"  Katharine  is  so  taken  up  with  her  hobby  of  visiting 
the  Indian  women  that  she  forgets  that  we  poor  white 
people  have  any  claims  upon  her  at  all.  But  that  poor 
young  clerk  was  a  well-intentioned  fellow,  I'm  sure, 
and  she  will  be  glad  to  know  how  it  all  came  out,  won't 
you,  Katharine?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Katharine  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  shall  be 
glad  to  know  how  it  all  came  out —  if  Mr.  Hunt  has 
the  time." 

"  He  will  take  the  time,"  said  Hugh,  quietly. 
<c  There  is  not  much  to  tell.  Mr.  Raynor  was  indicted 
by  the  Grand  Jury.  He  has  retained  a  splendid  firm 
of  lawyers  —  Barton  and  Sampson  —  but  I  am  afraid 
there  is  going  to  be  a  hard  fight.  The  case  was  con- 
tinued." 

"Until  when?"  asked  Katharine,  and,  "What  a 
shame !  "  exclaimed  her  mother. 

"  Until  February  —  when  the  next  term  of  court  con- 
venes." 

"  But  of  course  my  father  has  gone  on  his  bond," 
said  Katharine.  "  Is  —  Mr.  Raynor  coming  back  to 
the  Agency  ?  " 

"  The  charge  is  murder,  you  know,"  said  Hugh, 
gravely.  "  It  is  not  a  bailable  offence." 

Was  the  world  spinning  around  all  of  a  sudden  — 


THE    B  R  I  D  G  E  -  B  U  I  L  D  E  R 

or  was  it  she?  Was  a  storm  brewing  or  was  it  already 
night?  It  could  not  be  night.  They  had  but  just 
lunched.  And  yet  it  was  growing  quite  dark.  She 
gripped  herself  hard.  Objects  ceased  their  swimming  in 
the  air,  and  once  more  she  could  see  clearly  the  grave-eyed 
young  man  leaning  back  from  the  table  after  the  quiet 
utterance  that  had,  in  the  winking  of  an  eye,  changed 
the  aspect  of  all  the  world  for  her  forever.  In  prison 
—  in  jail  —  like  a  common  criminal!  He  would  come 
out  with  the  prison  pallor  —  if  he  came  out  at  all. 
Oh,  if  he  came  out  at  all!  He  would  be  marked  for- 
evermore.  She  could  hear  her  mother  chattering  soft 
but  voluble  expressions  of  sympathy,  of  surprise,  even 
wondering  if,  after  all,  it  might  be  that  he  had  done 
it.  And  then  Mrs.  Mendenhall  left  the  room,  after 
excusing  herself  to  the  busy  man,  who  must  not  be  kept 
any  longer  gossiping  with  a  pack  of  women  folks;  so 
Katharine,  a  little  pale  but  bravely  smiling,  took  up  the 
thread  of  the  broken  discourse,  as  women  must,  though 
worlds  do  change  and  men  languish  in  prison. 

When  a  little  Indian  boy  came  to  the  door  leading 
the  Missionary's  horse  all  strapped  with  blanket  and 
saddle  bags,  ready  for  a  journey  into  the  wilderness, 
she  said  she  would  walk  to  the  ferry  with  him  if  he  did 
not  mind  —  it  was  a  beautiful  day  —  her  mother  would 
be  napping,  shortly  —  she  wanted  something  to  do, 
and  —  she  wanted  so  much  to  talk  to  him  a  little  while. 
She  would  just  walk  to  the  river  with  him,  and  then  she 
would  not  keep  him  from  Running  Bird  any  longer. 
While  she  was  talking,  she  was  tying  on  a  big  shady; 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

garden  hat;  then  she  picked  up  a  flimsy  little  white 
silk  parasol  that  made  Hugh  Hunt  smile,  it  was  so 
flagrantly  unnecessary  in  conjunction  with  the  hat,  and 
so  ludicrously  inadequate  in  this  land  of  sun  and  wind 
and  shadeless  expanse ;  then  she  said,  "  I  am  ready." 

"  Now  talk  to  me,"  said  the  Missionary,  gently,  CLS 
they  turned  into  the  trail  to  the  river,  the  horse  docilely 
following  behind.  "  What  troubles  you,  Miss  Menden- 
hall?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  so  many  things,"  replied  Katha- 
rine slowly.  "  It  all  seems  such  a  waste  of  time." 

"What  seems  such  a  waste  of  time?"  asked  Hugh, 
with  a  quizzical  smile,  though  he  knew.  There  had 
been  times  when  he  thought  so,  too.  But  he  thought 
those  times  could  not  come  to  him  any  more,  now  that 
he  could  preach  faith,  simply  keeping  the  faith,  to  his 
Dakotas,  with  a  clean  heart  and  conscience,  because  his 
own  people  had  kept  faith  with  them.  Running  Bird 
could  not  now  say,  "  I  have  waited  too  long."  No 
Dakota  could  now  say  to  him,  "  White  man  say  his 
God  say  no  steal,  no  lie,  no  kill,  no  go  to  war,  to 
believe.  We  believe  they  no  steal,  they  no  lie,  they  no 
kill,  they  no  go  to  war  —  but  they  do.  Indian  no 
want  that  kind  of  God." 

"  To  teach  people  who  would  so  much  rather  not  be 
taught.  To  teach  them  to  be  clean,  when  they  would 
so  much  rather  not  be  clean.  To  teach  them  to  sew, 
when  close  application  is  their  abomination.  To  teach 
them  to  read  and  write  and  cipher,  when  they  had  so 
much,  oh,  so  much  rather  be  playing  games,  sleeping 


THE    BRIDGE- BUILDER 

in  the  shade,  hunting,  and  laughing,  and  if  they  must 
starve  to-day,  to  laugh  still  because  to-morrow  comes 
the  feasting.  Why  pamper  them  with  hospitals  and 
medicines,  when  they  die  so  contentedly  without  them  — 
and  hate  and  fear  them  so  intensely?  Who  knows  but 
that  their  way  is  the  better  way  for  them  —  perhaps  for 
us?" 

"  Smoke  Woman  was  not  content  that  White  Flower 
should  die  without  them,"  said  Hugh,  quietly. 

"  Possibly  not.  But  is  she  not  one  in  a  thousand  ? 
Do  not  they  all  flee  from  the  terrible  wakan  of  our 
physicians  as  we  would  flee  from  a  pestilence?  They 
do  not  understand  it.  They  think  it  is  witchcraft,  pure 
and  simple.  They  would  lie  down  and  die  before  they 
would  voluntarily  enter  a  hospital.  You  know  that. 
You  have  fought  it  for  how  many  weary  years?  Have 
they  not  had  a  fair  trial?  Is  it  any  further  use?  They 
are  so  happy  —  let  alone.  Then  why  not  let  them 
alone,  Mr.  Hunt?  " 

"  Miss  Mendenhall,"  began  Hugh,  very  gravely,  "  if 
you  or  I  should  suddenly  be  snatched  away  from  our 
kind  and  taken  to  live  with  a  tribe  of  pagan  Sioux  - 
never  any  more  to  see  a  white  person;  never  any  more 
to  read  a  book,  to  hear  a  song  or  a  prayer;  never 
any  more  to  see  cultivated  fields  of  things  growing, 
corn  and  wheat  and  thrifty  gardens;  to  eat  bread,  not 
by  the  sweat  of  our  face,  but  by  the  skill  of  our 
arm  and  the  acuteness  of  our  sight;  to  wander 
whither  we  would  without  moral  responsibility  or  obli- 
gation ;  to  stay  in  no  place  long  enough  to  learn  to 

[235] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

love  the  soil  for  the  soil's  sake  and  to  test  the  possibili- 
ties of  its  development,  only  to  love  it  because  it  is 
fatherland  and  because  of  what  roams  over  its  prairies 
all  ready  for  the  hand  of  the  hunter,  without  weary 
months  of  ploughing  and  harrowing  and  planting  and 
waiting  —  it  would  not  take  you  or  me  very  long  to 
become  as  the  tribe.  We  are  none  of  us  so  far  re- 
moved from  savagery  that  the  process  of  reversion 
would  be  long  on  the  way.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
Running  Bird  or  White  Flower,  or  any  other  full- 
blooded  Sioux  should  be  absolutely  removed  from  all 
tribal  relationship  —  taken  right  into  the  heart  of  a 
white  settlement,  never  any  more  to  see  one  of  his 
race ;  never  again  to  indulge  in  dance  orgies  of  re- 
ligious fanaticism  or  to  taste  the  blood  of  any  enemy; 
never  any  more  to  press  the  bare  back  of  an  Indian, 
pony  flying  in  wildly  intoxicating  pursuit  of  the  buf- 
falo; never  any  more  to  hear  the  ignorant,  bigoted, 
superstitious  make-believes  of  a  medicine  man,  or  to  be 
harangued  by  a  would-be  leader  —  it  would  not  be 
very  long  before  he  would  be  thinking  and  acting  like 
a  civilized  being.  We  are  none  of  us  so  degenerate 
but  that  the  smouldering  spark  of  divinity  in  all  of  us 
may  be  fanned  to  a  flame.  It  would  take  Running 
Bird  a  little  longer  to  become  a  perfect  exponent  of  ad- 
vanced civilization  than  for  me  to  become  a  savage, 
because  it  is  always  easier  to  slide  down  hill  on  a  sled 
than  to  climb  the  hill  dragging  the  sled  behind.  But 
in  either  case  it  would  not  be  long.  But  when  we  take 
the  whole  tribes  —  a  complete  nation  —  drive  them 

[236] 


THE    B  R  I  D  G  E  -  B  U  I  L  D  E  R 

back  until  there  is  no  place  beyond;  usurp  their  ter- 
ritory; isolate  them;  limit  their  boundaries;  take 
from  them  their  independence ;  tell  them  to  cultivate 
the  soil,  when  they  know  no  more  about  farming  than 
they  do  about  Sanscrit;  prey  upon  their  credulity; 
gird  them  round  about  with  regiments  of  soldiers  to  keep 
them  whipped  into  a  grovelling  submission  they  do  not 
understand;  put  two  or  three  men  into  the  midst  of 
thousands  to  keep  the  internal  machinery  oiled, —  from 
whence  then  can  come  enlightenment,  emulation,  devel- 
opment, civilization,  Christianity?  I  do  not  say  that 
there  is  specific  fault  anywhere.  Perhaps  it  is  the  best 
that  can  be  done  under  existing  conditions.  I  do  not 
know.  But  this  I  do  know,  and  from  the  depths  of 
my  heart  and  soul  I  answer  you:  they  have  not  had  a 
fair  trial !  We  have  but  just  begun." 

"  But  surely  they  are  getting  worse  instead  of  better,'* 
exclaimed  Katharine,  not  yet  beaten  in  her  young  un- 
tried discouragement.  "  They  are  dirtier  than  they 
were.  They  steal  more  (I  am  told  that  *  picking  and 
stealing '  were  unknown  quantities  to  the  earlier  Da- 
kotas)  and  lie  more,  since  civilization  has  touched 
their  outer  ranks.  It  is  as  if  they  greedily  absorbed  the 
bad  of  the  new  influence  and  eschew  the  good.  They 
are  more  superstitious  because  our  ways  are  new  mys- 
teries to  them.  Do  you  remember  that  terrible  thun- 
der storm  we  had  a  few  days  ago?  It  was  while  you 
were  gone,  by  the  way.  After  it  was  over,  Mr.  Asher 
Newman  went  down  to  the  river  bank  to  fly  his  kite. 
He  is  a  lonely  man  and  has  many  odd  amusements. 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

There  was  a  fine  fresh  breeze  blowing.  It  was  not  many 
minutes  before  a  crowd  of  Indians  had  gathered  about 
him  whining,  gesticulating,  threatening.  I  could  not 
understand  it  all  then  but  he  told  me  afterwards  that 
they  thought  the  kite  was  a  messenger  calling  back  the 
thunder  and  lightning,  and  that  he  had  been  practis- 
ing black  art  before  their  very  eyes.  They  were  like 
children  in  their  unreasoning  fright.  It  seems  to  me 
death  comes  among  them  oftener  than  it  used  to.  Does 
not  disease  take  off  more  of  our  Agency  Indians  than 
did  their  tribal  wars  in  the  old  days  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  —  for  a  little  while,"  responded  Hugh, 
musingly.  "  All  transition  periods  are  hard.  A  better 
time  will  recruit  their  broken  ranks.  You  will  see.5' 

"  Possibly"  said  Katharine,  pessimistically.  Then 
she  continued  her  argument.  "  They  promise  to  send 
their  children  to  school  to  learn  to  read  and  farm,  and 
then  abet  them  in  their  running  away." 

"  Yes,  and  we  feed  them  and  promise  to  keep  on 
feeding  them  till  they  learn  to  farm  and  become  self- 
supporting.  So  they  don't  learn  to  farm,  and  they 
consider  themselves  already  self-supporting,  because  the 
land  was  theirs.  It  is  only  right  that  it  should  pro- 
vide them  sustenance.  They  are  like  the  leisure  class 
of  any  people  —  they  sit  back  and  enjoy  the  in- 
come from  their  landed  estates.  It  is  sure  —  this  in- 
come. There  is  no  need  for  them  to  plan  and  struggle 
and  economize.  And  as  with  all  such  classes,  so  much 
leisure,  without  a  corresponding  dock  in  income,  af- 


THE    BRIDGE-BUILDER 

fords  an  excellent  breeding  ground  for  idleness,  super- 
stition, corruption,  degeneracy, —  mentally,  morally, 
physically.  Is  it  any  wonder?  " 

"  But  do  you  see  a  way  out  of  the  wilderness,  Mr. 
Hunt?  Oh,  I  know  I  have  too  little  faith;  but  grant 
them  years  of  fair  trial  —  what  then?  Will  they 
survive  our  civilization?  We  are  so  utterly  dissimilar. 
Shall  we  not  rather  have  refined  them  off  the  earth?  I 
have  been  thinking  about  these  things  since  I  half  prom- 
ised to  teach  in  the  mission  school  this  Winter,  and  I  am 
afraid.  It  all  seems  so  hopeless." 

"  I  see  a  way  out  of  the  wilderness,"  answered  Hugh, 
and  with  his  eyes  lifted  to  the  hill-tops,  agleam  with  a 
strange  prophetic  exaltation,  it  was  as  if  he  were  read- 
ing from  some  scroll  unseen  of  any  but  him  whose  faith 
should  endure  "  to  the  end."  "  I  see  that  civilization, 
which  you  spoke  of  as  touching  the  outer  ranks  only, 
finally  make  triumphant  entrance  to  the  inner  sanctu- 
ary of  their  pagan  hearts.  I  see  that  the  siege  was 
long  and  hard.  I  see  that  nothing  availed  until  we  left 
off  dawdling  about  our  camps  on  the  outer  edge  of  the 
wilderness  and  boldly  plunged  within  —  to  find  the  way 
out.  I  see  even  then  years  of  seemingly  fruitless  skir- 
mishing around  the  guarded  citadel  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  wilderness,  and  that  nothing  availed  until  we 
left  off  gathering  our  garments  about  us  for  fear  of 
defilement,  until  we  repudiated  our  relationship  with  the 
Pharisee,  aye,  until  we  met  and  mingled  as  man  to  man, 
friend  to  friend,  brother  to  brother;  then  only  the 

[239] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

walls  fell  and  the  miracle  was  accomplished  —  the  mir- 
acle of  one  people,  Miss  Mendenhall,  one  people,  out  of 
the  wilderness." 

"  What !  Shall  we  marry  the  survivors  and  thus  set- 
tle the  question  forever  by  assimilation?  " 

"Why  not?"  asked  Hugh,  with  a  far  away  smile. 
"  I  do  not  say  yes,  but  why  not?  We  are  prone  to 
prate  of  our  Pilgrim  blood  or  of  our  aristocratic  James- 
town descent.  Why  should  not  our  children  pride 
themselves  on  their  descent  from  an  older  line  yet  —  the 
line  of  the  first  Americans?  Of  what  ingredients  are 
we  composed  as  a  nation  —  German,  English,  French, 
Scandinavian,  Russian  —  a  pinch  of  everything  —  are 
we  not?  Why  should  the  Dakotas  alone  be  cut  off 
from  participation  in  the  finished  product?  They  are 
a  free  people.  There  is  manhood  there,  and  woman- 
hood. There  is  loyalty  there,  and  reverence.  I  say, 
why  not?  " 

They  had  long  since  reached  the  river  but  the  Mis- 
sionary stood  on  the  bank,  forgetful  of  haste,  while 
the  swift  current  dragged  ineffectually  at  the  confined 
ferry  boat.  Katharine,  too,  had  forgotten  that  she 
was  keeping  Running  Bird  waiting.  She  was  staring 
breathlessly  at  the  boldness  of  this  man's  sweeping 
eradication  of  an  already  foreshadowed  social  barrier 
of  the  future.  Brilliant  reds,  August-stained,  were 
gleaming  from  sumach  bushes  in  the  gulches,  while  the 
yellow  glint  of  sunflowers,  springing  up  where  sod  had 
been  broken,  spoke  eloquently  of  the  golden  glow  of 
setting  Summer. 

[240] 


THE    BRIDGE-BUILDER 

"  But  when  shall  all  these  things  come  to  pass,  Mr. 
Hunt?  "  asked  Katharine.  For  one  brief  moment,  she 
had  been  given  to  see,  however  falteringly,  the  infinity 
which  alone  hedged  in  the  soul  of  the  man,  and  then 
the  old  harrowing,  limited,  bound-down  world-problems 
again  settled  around  her  to  fret  her  own  soul.  "  Will 
the  regeneration  of  horrid  hostile  leaders,  like  Red 
Cloud,  come  in  our  day  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  think  of  me  if  I  said  that  such  men 
have  not  far  to  go  to  be  regenerate?     Remember  that 
those  Tetons  are  fighting  for  everything  a  man  holds 
sacred  —  fatherland,   independence,   hearth   and   home, 
national  existence.     If  it  does  not  come  in  my  day  or 
yours,  must  it  then  be  that  it  cannot  be?     Little  girl, 
all  great  world-movements  must  undergo  a  transition 
period,  when  things  seem  worse  than  they  were  before 
—  worse,  at  least,  to  our  poor  limited  vision;  but  one 
lifetime  is  such  an  infinitesimal  part  of  infinity,  how 
can  one  hope  to  see  clearly  the  whole  scheme.     If  I  see 
my    little    way    clear,    and    my    child    sees    his,    and 
my    child's   child   sees   his,   and   we   walk   therein,   fit- 
ting those  little  lengths  of  light  together  as   we  go, 
have   we   not   finally   girdled   the   universe   with   light, 
and     therefore     necessarily     bridged     the     chasm     be- 
tween  the   finite   and   the   infinite?     Am   I   preaching, 
young    lady?     Forgive    me.     One    little    word    more. 
Many  people   still  think   the  negro   was   better  off  in 
bondage.     In  many  ways  the  carpet-bagging  days  of 
Reconstruction   seemed  more  dreadful  than   slavery   or 
the  horrors  of  internecine  war.     The  Reign  of  Terror 
16  [ 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

was    worse  —  far    worse  —  than    the    tyranny    of    the 
French  nobles;  yet  all  these  things  sprang  from  what 
was   good   in   the   first   place.     Something   was   wrong 
somewhere  or  such  conditions  could  not  arise.     Some- 
thing is  wrong  now  concerning  my  Indians  —  but   I 
must  hold  fast  to  my  little  light  and  not  drop  it  in  the 
confusion  or  the  link  that  has  grown  thus  far  will  be 
broken  and  that  will  make  it  all  the  harder  for  those 
who  come  after  me  to  find  the  place  again  and  weld 
their  links  where  mine  should  have  been.     My  Dakotas 
must  have  their  transition  period.     They  must   suffer 
bodily  discomforts  and  ills  because  it  is  a  great  change 
from  freedom  to  confinement.     Many  must  die  of  the 
new   disease   wrought   by   the    abrupt   change.     Many 
must    die    because    of    the    chafing    of    their    proud 
spirits   in  an  intolerable  bondage.     Many   must   grow 
lazy,     corrupt,     degenerate,     because     conditions     will 
be   such   as   to   make   them   so.     Many   must    continue 
to  go  to  war  because  we  shall  still  set  them  the  example. 
You  remember  what  the  Uncpapa   Chief,  Bear's  Rib, 
once  said  concerning  General  Harney  —  how  he  told 
the  Indians  never  to  go  to  war,  and  yet  he  was  always 
going  to  war  himself.     Something  is  wrong,  dear,  but 
it  is  a  wrong  that  is  world-old,  and  you  and  I  cannot 
live  to  see  the  end  gloriously  vindicate  the  creation.     If 
the  Indian  regenerate  does  not  appear  in  my  day  or 
yours,  he  will  come.     Never  doubt  it.     I  believe  from 
my  heart  that  I  shall  live  to  see  his  shadow  looming 
high  on  the  horizon." 

"  He  —  this   Indian  —  demands   too   costly   a   sacri- 


THE    BRIDGE-BUILDER 

fice,"  said  Katharine,  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  cannot 
make  it  seem  right.  What  is  to  become  of  jou,  Mr. 
Hunt?  Are  you  going  to  spend  all  your  life  out  of  the 
real  world  which  so  needs  men  like  you?  " 

"  What  shall  I  be  doing,  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Hugh, 
with  a  serene  smile.  "Oh,  I  shall  be  pegging  away 
at  the  bridge.  I  must  finish  my  length  before  I  die, 
for  oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  the  world  needs  that  bridge 
sadly,  sadly!" 


[243] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A    MAN    WITH    A    POOR    MEMORY 

THE  Summer  passed,  and  the  Autumn.  It  was  very 
quiet  on  the  Great  Reservation.  The  prompt 
and  effective  carrying  out  of  the  orders  of  General  Sher- 
idan proved  a  wonderful  pacifier  to  the  Dakotas,  all  of 
whom  had  been  so  bitterly  annoyed  at  the  military 
invasion,  and  so  suspicious  of  the  Government's  in- 
tentions. The  enterprising  and  ambitious  company, 
formed  at  the  Territorial  capital  before  the  ink  on  the 
press  which  told  the  news  of  the  discovery  was  dry, 
to  advertise  the  gold  fields,  with  Yankton  as  the  natural 
gateway  to  this  elysium,  was  a  bubble  which  broke 
so  soon  that  the  members  were  left  gasping  at  the  sud- 
denness with  which  their  fond  hopes  were  blighted. 
Like  hungry  trout  which  spring  at  a  fly  and  swal- 
low a  hook,  these  men,  with  visions  of  glittering  gold 
before  their  eyes,  made  their  greedy  spring,  and  the  iron 
of  their  discomfiture  entered  into  their  souls. 

Many  bands  of  hostile  Indians,  organized  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  resisting  an  expected  attempt  to  cheat 
them  out  of  their  cherished  treasure  house,  scattered  to 
their  homes  and  to  the  Fall  hunting.  Winter  set  in 
and  froze  the  river,  isolating  yet  more  the  lonely  agen- 

[  244  ] 


A  MAX  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY 

cies  and  military  and  trading  posts  along  its  course. 
The  annuities  had  come  up  in  the  last  steamer  which 
had  dared  the  daily  increasing  danger  of  becoming  ice- 
locked.  It  had  unloaded  its  cargo  at  the  different  sta- 
tions along  the  way,  intrepidly  going  up  and  up  to  the 
northernmost  point  of  its  scheduled  journey;  then  it 
had  passed  safely  back  again,  leaving  a  profound 
silence,  a  vast  isolation,  in  the  Winter-bound  Indian 
country.  The  boat  was  the  last  connecting-link  between 
the  world  and  the  wilderness.  With  it  went  the  last 
hope  of  communion  with  one's  kind  and  of  knowledge 
of  what  was  going 'on  in  the  great  world  beyond  the 
frozen  North  for  more  than  half  a  year's  fettered  soli- 
tude, accompanied  by  the  tearful  farewells  and  brave 
God-speeds  of  the  handful  of  whites  scattered  along 
the  military  and  trading  posts  of  the  upper  country. 
The  Indians  came  in  from  their  hunting  and  Summer 
wanderings  for  their  annuities,  bringing  with  them 
many  hostiles  who  coveted  the  sure  rations  which  would 
be  provided  for  them  at  the  several  agencies. 

It  was  the  busy  season  for  the  Missionary.  Travel 
was  hard,  but  that  did  not  keep  him  from  his  round  of 
labor  among  his  chosen  people.  The  little  mission 
school  made  a  brave  start  and  was  flourishing.  Katha- 
rine was  there  —  not  with  altogether  so  ardent  an  im- 
agination as  had  come  to  her  when  it  was  asked  her 
what  she  would  do  if  her  father  went  back  to  the 
States.  She  was  haunted  over-much  with  visions  of 
prison  bars  and  the  sternness  of  law.  But  she  had  a 
growing  belief  once  more  in  the  ultimate  glorification 

[245] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

of  the  Missionary's  high  faith.  The  little  black-eyed 
children  came  to  love  Sun-in-the-hair  to  the  increasing 
f orgetfulness  of  their  innate  aversion  to  schools  in  gen- 
eral. They  brought  her  gifts  of  all  the  little  trinkets 
their  hearts  most  fondly  cherished.  A  little  child  died 
that  Winter  and  Katharine  wept  unrestrainedly  when  it 
was  explained  to  her  that  the  child  had  willed  her  a  tiny 
doll,  wrapped  in  its  carrying  shawl  —  the  most  dearly 
loved  of  her  poor  and  too  few  possessions.  Running 
Bird  kept  to  his  own  side  of  the  river.  He  was  smart- 
ing under  White  Flower's  rejection  of  his  suit.  Hugh 
Hunt  had  found  him  gloomy,  taciturn,  unresponsive, 
utterly  unlike  himself,  and  had  left  him  so,  but  slightly 
cheered  by  the  news  which  the  Missionary  had  journeyed 
so  far  to  impart. 

February  took  the  Agent,  his  wife  and  daughter,  and 
the  Special  Inspector,  together  with  Hugh  Hunt,  by 
slow  stages,  over  wagon  route,  to  Yankton,  for  the  trial 
of  Locke  Ray  nor,  charged  with  the  murder  of  Brian 
Levering  while  the  latter  was  bearing  despatches  to  Fort 
Abraham  Lincoln,  and  again  Roberts,  sub-agent  for  the 
Lower  Brules  and  the  Yanktonais,  was  left  in  charge  of 
the  two  agencies,  still  whimsically  glum  for  lack  of 
news,  and  with  less  chance  than  ever  of  obtaining  it. 

Six  months  of  confinement  had  told  with  terrible  sure- 
ness  upon  Locke  Raynor.  He  was  thin,  moody,  and 
indifferent.  He  had  endured  the  horror  of  incarcer- 
ation for  six  long  months.  Those  months  had  not  gone 
well  with  him.  The  memory  of  them  would  have  power 
to  chafe  him  as  long  as  he  lived.  Now  he  would  brook 


A  MAN  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY 

no  attempt  at  another  continuance  —  not  because  he 
still  had  so  great  a  confidence  in  the  strength  of  his  de- 
fence, but  for  the  reason  that  so  sorely  had  his  experi- 
ence behind  prison  bars  tried  his  proud  spirit,  he  deemed 
even  to  hang,  an  innocent  man,  a  fate  preferable  to  any 
further  endurance  of  an  enforced  loss  of  personal  liberty. 
The  jeers  and  gaping  curiosity  of  a  multitude  of  mor- 
bid onlookers  had  begun  to  seem  to  him  as  a  matter 
of  little  worth,  incomparably  lower  in  power  to  sting 
and  to  mortify  him  than  this  unjust  curtailment  of  his 
inalienable  right  to  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happi- 
ness. The  two  outweighed  the  life  so  that  without  them 
he  was  fast  becoming  indifferent  to  the  life.  Besides, 
so  astounding  to  his  self-conceit  had  been  his  indictment 
by  the  Grand  Jury,  that  nothing  which  could  happen 
now  would  move  him  to  any  great  surprise.  Certainly 
not  to  a  panic  of  fear  of  death.  He  had  had  six  long 
dragging  months  in  which  to  familiarize  himself  with 
the  grim  spectre,  and  while  he  loved  life  much,  he  loved 
liberty  more.  He  had  become  strangely  reckless  since 
Sampson,  the  younger  member  of  the  firm,  had  told  him 
that  the  old  road-house  keeper's  memory  seemed  dead 
beyond  resuscitation. 

But  his  morbid  indifference  fell  from  him  like  a  one- 
piece  garment,  unclasped,  when  he  saw  the  agency 
group  down  toward  the  front  of  the  court  room  — 
Katharine  Mendenhall  sitting  close  to  her  mother, 
the  pale  Missionary  to  her  left,  the  burly  Major 
claiming  the  seat  next  to  the  aisle  and  beside  his  wife. 
Why  had  Katharine  come?  Why  had  she  braved  cold 

[247] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

and  ice  and  snow  and  storm  and  rough  wagon  road 
for  days  and  nights  when,  crude  as  the  comforts  were  at 
the  little  stockaded  Agency,  there  was  always  a  roar- 
ing fire  and  a  chair  before  it,  and  the  indolent  ease  of 
a  petted  house  cat  who  sleeps  contentedly  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  well-knowing  that  in  good  time  its  saucer 
of  milk  will  be  forthcoming.  There  could  be  little 
responsibility  for  the  women  at  the  Agency  in  Winter 
time.  They  were  winter-locked.  They  could  eat  and 
sleep  and  keep  warm,  and  that  was  all.  It  was  the  very 
acme  of  luxurious  indolence,  without  the  fret  of  think- 
ing one  ought  to  be  up  and  doing.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  and  nothing  with  which  to  do  it  if  there  were.  He 
did  not  know  that  many  a  time  while  he  lay  listening 
to  the  wild  Winter  winds  whistling  around  the  jail, 
Katharine  Mendenhall,  short-skirted  and  fur-clad,  in- 
domitable of  spirit  and  withal  becoming  more  and  more 
touched  with  the  divine  spirit  of  a  great  compassion, 
was  struggling  through  drifts  of  snow  to  carry  good 
food  to  an  improvident  family,  medicine  to  the  sick,  or 
to  lead  a  little  child  home,  some  day-scholar,  who  might 
have  become  confused  by  the  cold  and  lost  its  way.  It 
might  even  have  died.  Often  the  little  children  came 
to  the  mission  with  but  meagre  clothing  to  keep  out  the 
inclement  weather.  Locke  Raynor  did  not  know  that 
these  errands  had  toughened  her  skin  and  reddened  her 
blood  until  she  felt  a  kind  of  glory  in  defying  the  north 
wind  and  ruthlessly  ploughing  through  snowdrifts  as  if 
there  were  no  barrier  on  earth  that  could  keep  her  from 
going  where  she  listed.  It  gave  her  a  pleasing  sense  of 

[248] 


A  MAN   WITH   A  POOR   MEMORY 

power  that  was  exhilarating.  The  contemplation  of 
the  long  frosty  ride  to  Yankton  had  no  terrors  for  her, 
but  Locke  was  appalled  at  the  very  thought  of  it,  even 
in  retrospection.  There  had  been  frequent  stops  on 
the  way  for  the  rest  and  comfort  of  the  party  —  they 
had  always  managed  to  make  goal  for  the  night's  shel- 
ter, for  hot  coffee,  and  for  heating  their  stones  and 
irons  again,  and  Katharine  came  out  of  the  experience 
with  a  glowing  color  and  a  vigorous  appetite.  Even 
her  mother  was  none  the  worse,  though  she  confessed 
to  more  chill  than  her  ruddy  daughter  would  acknowl- 
edge. There  was  something  Locke  did  not  know  — 
something  which  brought  Katharine  to  the  capital  de- 
spite the  long  and  forbidding  journey;  and  because  of 
this  thing  which  he  did  not  know,  he  wondered  much. 
He  knew  the  Missionary  had  espoused  his  cause. 
Hugh  had  made  that  fact  very  plain  to  him  long  ago. 
It  was  good  of  him  to  come,  even  though  there  was  noth- 
ing he  could  do.  He  remembered  the  Missionary's 
part  in  the  banishment  of  the  whiskey-smugglers  with  a 
smile  of  peculiar  pleasure.  He  admired  him  for  it. 
If  Katharine  loved  him,  well — .  But  their  presence 
flushed  his  face,  squared  his  jaw,  and  aroused  his  long 
dormant  fighting  spirit.  Katharine  did  not  look  at 
him  once.  That  he  could  see.  She  was  remembering 
how  he  went  away  without  saying  good-bye,  but  that 
he  could  not  know. 

"  Now  you  will  please  tell  in  your  own  words  the 
story  of  your  finding  of  the  body  of  Brian  Levering," 
said  the  prosecuting  attorney,  leaning  back  in  his  chair. 

[249] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

The  witness  on  the  stand  was  a  herder.  On  a  cer- 
tain day  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  was 
looking  for  stray  cattle  among  the  river  bluffs.  He 
must  have  been  a  half-mile  or  more  from  the  trail. 
Yes,  before  he  left  the  trail,  he  had  seen  a  horse  graz- 
ing shortly  to  one  side.  Yes,  the  horse  was  saddled 
but  riderless.  He  had  thought  nothing  of  the  inci- 
dent. The  master  of  him  was  probably  not  far  dis- 
tant. Then  he  had  turned  off  into  the  hills.  He  had 
gone  quite  a  ways.  Then  he  had  stumbled  upon  the 
body.  It  was  tying  at  the  bottom  of  a  gulch.  Yes, 
there  was  a  little  underbrush  —  not  much.  The  man, 
was  dead.  He  had  been  shot  in  the  back.  His  pockets 
were  pulled  out  and  had  been  rifled.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  value  left  anywhere.  There  was  every  evidence 
that  he  had  been  robbed.  The  herder  had  then  notified 
the  proper  authorities  and  that  was  all  he  knew  about  it. 

A  doctor  was  called  next,  who  certified  that  he  had 
examined  the  bullet  wound  and  that  it  was  sufficient  to 
cause  immediate  death,  and  that  in  his  opinion  it  did 
cause  the  death  of  Brian  Levering. 

A  hotel  employee  testified  that  the  horse  found  graz- 
ing by  the  trail  was  the  same  one  which  the  deceased 
had  ridden  away  from  the  hotel  in  company  with  the 
prisoner.  The  owner  also  identified  it. 

The  brother  of  Brian  Levering  was  called.  He  was 
worn  and  sad-looking.  His  blue  Irish  eyes  were  dulled 
by  many  wakeful  hours.  There  were  tears  there,  too, 
when  he  described  their  last  night  together  at  the  hotel. 
But  his  voice  was  stern  and  steady  when  he  identified 

[250] 


A  MAN  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY 

the  fateful  bill,  pasted  together  with  a  strip  of  pale 
pink  tissue  paper.  He  could  not  possibly  be  mistaken, 
because  he  had  pasted  it  together  himself  rather  than 
take  the  trouble  of  sending  it  to  the  Treasury.  The 
tissue  paper  had  been  wrapped  around  a  small  box  of 
quinine  pills  when  it  came  from  the  drug  store.  He 
had  given  the  bill  to  his  brother  on  that  last  night.  He 
told  the  issue  and  the  denomination. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  the  Government 
called  Robert  Bent.  Robert  Bent  called  by  the  Govern- 
ment! The  irony  of  it!  Locke  gritted  his  teeth  and 
resisted  with  difficulty  an  impulse  to  swear  out  loud. 
The  old  man  told  of  the  prisoner's  arrival  at  his  place 
with  the  young  officer  about  sundown,  one  evening  in 
late  July  or  early  August,  he  could  n't  rightly  remem- 
ber which.  He  was  somewhat  loquacious  in  his  recital, 
but  many  people  of  failing  memory  are.  It  was  not 
unusual.  Neither  the  prisoner  nor  his  companion  had 
been  particularly  communicative  on  that  occasion. 
They  ate  a  light  supper  and  started  out  together.  The 
soldier  fellow  had  said  something  about  having  to  go 
on  and  the  prisoner  had  said  he  'd  show  him  the  way. 
He  had  come  back  after  a  little  while,  the  prisoner  had, 
and  had  gone  to  bed  in  the  corner.  He  had  seemed  a 
surly  chap.  He  had  not  condescended  to  give  any  in- 
formation about  his  intentions  or  his  past  doings.  He 
was  too  uppish  to  sleep  in  a  plain  but  clean  bed,  gentle- 
men, or  maybe  he  thought  to  sleep  on  his  saddle  to  be 
all  ready  if  — " 

"  Your  Honor,"  cut  in  the  crisp  tones  of  the  junior 
[251] 


THE        SPIRIT        T  R  A  I  £ 

member  for  the  defence,   "  we   do   not   care   anything 
about  this  witness's  fairy  tales." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  judge.  "  The  witness  will 
confine  himself  to  facts,  and  not  attempt  to  argue  the 
case." 

"  Mr.  Bent,"  said  the  prosecuting  attorney,  "  were 
the  prisoner  and  the  young  lieutenant  the  only  guests 
you  had  that  night?" 

"  No,  Peter  Dorsey  was  there  a  short  time  but  he 
didn't  stay  long." 

"  Mr.  Bent,  did  you  ever  see  this  before  ?  "  asked  the 
lawyer  tendering  him  the  bill,  marked  "  Exhibit  A." 

"  Not  that  I  remember  of,"  said  Bob  Bent,  with  a 
vacant  stare,  as  if  he  beheld  something  so  extraor- 
dinarily new  and  uncomprehendable  as  to  be  a  very 
phenomenon. 

"  Mr.  Bent,"  asked  Sampson,  when  his  turn  came, 
"  you  received  a  bank  note  from  Peter  Dorsey  that 
night  to  settle  his  score;  you  did  not  look  at  it 
especially  to  see  if  it  differed  from  thousands  of  others 
—  you  had  no  reason  for  doing  that  —  but  you  re- 
member receiving  a  bill,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  But  you  might  have  received  a  bill?  " 
>'  I  don't  remember." 

"  Oil  your  memory  machine  a  little,  Mr.  Bent,  if  you 
please.  Now  did  you  or  did  you  not  receive  a  bill  from 
Peter  Dorsey  that  night  when  he  called  so  late  for  a 
lunch?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  would  have  remembered  it  if  I  had," 
[252] 


A  MAN  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY 

said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head.  "  I  always  make  a 
habit  of  examining  any  money  I  take  in  —  leastwise  bills. 
I  'm  too  poor  a  man  to  risk  counterfeits." 

"  It  would  be  the  first  thing  I  ever  knew  you  to 
remember  if  you  had,"  said  Mr.  Sampson,  exasperated. 
"  However,  you  don't  deny  that  you  might  have  re- 
ceived a  bill  from  Peter  Dorsey  —  he  was  in  a  great 
hurry  —  he  pulled  out  a  roll  of  bills  —  ripped  off  the 
top  one  and  threw  it  down  —  he  might  have  done  that, 
Mr.  Bent,  he  might  have?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  ever  receiving  such  a  bill." 

"  I  did  n't  say  such  a  bill.  I  said  a  bill.  You  might 
have  received  a  bill,  might  you  not?  You  received  a  bill 
from  Locke  Raynor,  did  you  not?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  Was  it  a  silver  dollar  you  received  from  Peter 
Dorsey?" 

"  The  witness  says  he  does  n't  remember  what  money 
or  moneys  Mr.  Dorsey  paid  down,  any  more  than  he 
remembers  what  the  prisoner  paid,"  interrupted  the 
prosecution,  impatiently. 

"  Was  it  a  silver  dollar?  "  asked  Sampson,  serenely. 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  You  know  there  are  n't  many  silver  dollars  in  cir- 
culation," urged  the  junior  member.  "  They  are  real 
novelties  out  this  way.  Wouldn't  you  be  apt  to  re- 
member a  silver  dollar  if  you  had  received  one  ?  " 

" 1  don't  remember  nothin'  about  it,"  said  the  wit- 
ness, sullenly. 

"  But  you  are  not  saying  it  was  n't  a  bill?  " 
[253] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  Yes,  I  am.  I  never  received  a  bill  from  Peter 
Dorsey,"  said  the  old  man,  unexpectedly.  His  eyes, 
which  had  been  wandering,  came  home  again,  and  he 
made  his  denial  with  a  strange  earnestness. 

"  Oh,  then  it  was  a  silver  dollar?  "  cried  Sampson, 
quickly. 

"  I  did  n't  say  it  was,"  retorted  the  old  man. 

"Then  it  wasn't?" 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  But  you  remember  giving  Mr.  Raynor  change  when 
he  settled  his  bill  in  the  morning?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  much  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  Did  n't  you  put  it  down  on  the  book?  ** 

"  I  don't  keep  no  books." 

"Was  it  bills  or  silver?" 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  Your  memory  is  n't  very  good,  is  it?  " 

"Pretty  good." 

"  You  don't  remember  anything  except  what'  you 
think  Peter  Dorsey  wants  you  to  remember ;  is  that  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  testifying  to  what  I  know  and  nothin'  more. 
Peter  Dorsey  hain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  it." 

So  the  day  ended  and  there  was  another  night  in 
prison.  It  was  a  wild,  blustering  night,  like  March 
come  too  soon.  The  cell  of  the  county  jail  was  but 
dimly  lighted  and  was  gloomy  and  musty. 

"  You  are  like  an  Indian,  Hunt,"  said  Locke,  as  his 
friend  rose  to  go.  Because  of  his  cloth,  the  Missionary 

[254] 


A  MAN  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY 

was  allowed  to  visit  the  accused  man  every  evening  after 
the  day's  trial.  "  Here  to-day  —  there  to-morrow. 
You  must  be  an  excellent  runner.  How  do  you  manage 
to  cover  so  much  ground  in  so  short  a  time?  I  did  not 
dream  that  you  could  get  here  for  the  trial.  It  was 
good  of  you  to  come." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  I  make  a  better  Indian  than 
a  white  man,"  said  Hugh,  with  his  quiet  smile.  "  It 
would  be  strange  if,  after  all  these  years,  I  had  not 
learned  something  from  them." 

"  But  how  can  you  leave  your  school  and  your  church 
for  so  long?  "  persisted  Locke.  He  could  not  bear  that 
his  friend  should  go.  The  nights  were  very  long  indeed. 
"  You  are  called  the  Apostle  to  the  Indians." 

"  Are  we  not  sent  to  preach  the  gospel  to  all  nations  ?  " 
said  the  Missionary,  gently. 

"  How  goes  your  prayer?  —  for  all  those  who  are  in 
trouble,  sorrow,  need,  sickness,  or  any  other  adversity.' 
Yes,  I  am  all  of  that.  It  was  good  of  you  to  come, 
Hugh.  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

"  Keep  up  a  good  heart,  Mr.  Raynor." 

"  I  shall  be  the  better  able  for  your  presence." 

"  Mr.  Sampson  thinks  he  can  tangle  Peter  Dorsey 
all  up  to-morrow.  These  braggadocio  fellows  are 
usually  easy  marks." 

"  They  can  always  forget,"  said  Locke,  with  the 
glimmer  of  a  smile. 

"  There  is  always  danger  of  their  forgetting  too 
much." 

"  I  was  surprised  to  see  Miss  Mendenhall  in  the  court 
[255] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

room  to-day.  Her  father  should  not  have  allowed  her 
to  come  —  neither  of  the  ladies.  Such  a  journey  at 
this  time  of  year  is  extremely  unwise." 

"  She  seems  none  the  worse  for  it,  however.  Mrs. 
Mendenhall  would  not  permit  her  to  come  unchaperoned 
—  poor  lady." 

"  Why  was  she  so  set  on  coming?  "  asked  Locke,  with 
a  keen  glance. 

"  I  think  because  the  hearts  of  all  of  us  at  the  Agency, 
Mr.  Raynor,  are  here  in  this  town  with  you." 

"  Especially  the  heart  of  the  Special  Inspector," 
said  Locke,  bitterly.  Pride  would  not  let  him  confess 
that  Katharine  had  not  spoken  to  him  or  even  seemed 
to  know  him,  but  appeared  rather  to  want  to  forget  that 
she  ever  knew  one  so  prison-branded. 

"  He  is  not  of  the  Agency.  He  is  not  one  of  us," 
said  Hugh  Hunt. 

Peter  Dorsey  took  the  stand  early  on  the  following 
morning.  He  seemed  in  very  good  spirits.  He  sur- 
veyed the  vast  crowd  down  in  front  with  frank  curiosity. 
The  court  room  was  crowded  almost  to  suffocation. 
The  gay  little  capital  city,  steamboat  made,  was  at  the 
height  of  its  gala  period.  The  town  itself  was  crowded. 
Although  the  Territorial  Legislature  had  just  ad- 
journed, there  were  many  of  its  members,  and  a  big 
following  of  those  interested  in  seeing  the  wheels  of 
government  go  round,  still  lingering.  There  were  cu- 
rious visitors  from  the  East  who  had  come  to  see  how 
things  were  done  in  the  land  of  the  savage.  There  were 
adventurers  of  both  sexes.  There  were  traders  and  con- 

[256] 


A  MAN  WITH   A  POOR   MEMORY 

tractors  and  Government  employees  of  all  grades  and 
descriptions.  There  was  a  sprinkling  of  far-seeing 
mining  outfitters  who,  having  come  to  the  Gateway, 
elected  to  abide  their  time,  confident  that  the  way  would 
be  opened  some  time.  There  were  army  officers,  and 
steamboat  crews  wintering  here,  and  only  waiting  for 
Spring  to  unlock  their  ice-bound  boats.  Many  vessels 
were  hauled  up  into  Winter  quarters,  for  the  upper 
river  trade  was  such  now  as  to  demand  closer  markets 
than  St.  Louis,  and  the  new  railroad  to  Yankton  helped 
that  town  wonderfully  to  become  a  steamboat  centre. 
So  the  little  city  was  laughing  and  dancing  and  making 
merry  in  its  fever  of  young  excitement,  and  everything 
passed  muster,  from  a  game  of  poker  or  a  wine  supper 
to  a  trial  for  murder.  Thus  was  the  court  room  crowded 
on  those  fateful  days  in  February. 

Peter  Dorsey  was  surprisingly  modest  as  a  witness. 
He  kept  his  temper,  to  the  real  astonishment  of  all  who 
knew  him.  It  made  a  good  impression.  There  were 
some,  however,  who  thought  he  had  been  well-trained 
by  the  new  blood  in  the  prosecution.  Through  the  in- 
fluence of  the  commanding  officer  of  Brian  Levering's 
regiment,  a  famous  firm  of  Chicago  lawyers  had  come 
out  to  help  the  Government.  They  were  middle-aged 
men,  mature  in  experience,  deeply  learned  in  the  tech- 
nicalities of  the  law,  and  knowing  human  nature  so  well 
that  they  were  accounted  the  best  jury  attorneys  in  the 
Northwest. 

"  Where  were  you  on  the  afternoon  of  July  thirty- 
first  last,  Mr.  Dorsey?" 
17  [ 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  On  the  trail  going  south  —  about  a  mile  north  of 
old  Bob  Bent's  road-house,"  said  Peter,  easily. 

"  Where  were  you  going?  " 

"To  Yankton." 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  meet  any  one?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  may  tell  the  jury  who  this  person  was." 

"  The  prisoner,  Locke  Raynor." 

"  Where  was  he  when  you  saw  him?  " 

"  Off  the  trail  about  half  a  mile,  riding  in  a  diagonal 
line  from  the  bluffs  back  toward  the  trail." 

He  then  proceeded  to  tell,  after  adroit  questioning, 
why  he  recognized  the  man  so  unmistakably.  He  knew 
the  prisoner's  build,  his  mannerisms  in  riding,  his  rid- 
ing clothes,  his  horse.  The  man  was  Locke  Raynor. 
No  one  else.  He  wore  a  broad-brimmed  white  felt  hat 
pulled  low  over  his  eyes.  He  rode  a  dark  bay  horse. 

The  testimony  regarding  the  hat  and  the  horse  coin- 
cided exactly  with  that  of  the  road-house  keeper  as  to 
the  hat  worn  and  the  horse  ridden  when  the  prisoner 
came  first  to  the  house  in  company  with  the  Lieutenant 
as  his  supper  guest  and  afterwards  when  he  returned 
from  seeing  the  young  despatch-bearer  well  into  the 
Big  Bend  trail.  It  all  sounded  pretty  bad,  but  there 
was  the  prisoner's  own  story  yet  to  come,  and  young 
Sampson  was  a  fighter.  He  had  learned  how  to  fight  at 

[258] 


A  MAN  WITH  A  POOR  MEMORY 

Pea  Ridge,  and  how  to  hang  on  at  the  Siege  of  7icks- 
burg.  No  one  left  the  court  room  who  was  not  ob/ged 
to  by  the  press  of  unavoidable  engagements.  The  In- 
terest was  too  intense. 

"  What  time  did  you  say  it  was,  Mr.  Dorsey,  when 
you  came  to  the  road-house?  "  Mr.  Sampson's  ques- 
tions were  crowding  one  upon  another,  quick,  hot,  sting- 
ing, like  rolling  clouds  of  steam  from  the  spout  of  a 
teakettle. 

"  Oh,  about  midnight,  I  reckon." 

"  Don't  you  remember?  "  There  was  a  biting  sar- 
casm in  the  word. 

"  Yes,  I  do !  "  snapped  Peter.  He  was  losing  his  fine 
temper.  "  It  was  five  minutes  to  twelve,  to  be  exact  — 
since  you  are  so  particular." 

"  You  looked  at  your  watch?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  And  it  was  exactly  five  minutes  to  twelve  ?  " 

"I  said  so,  didn't  I?" 

"  Now,  Mr.  Dorsey,  you  testified  a  little  while  ago 
that  it  was  about  sundown  when  you  saw  Mr.  Raynor 
riding  a  little  off  the  trail.  You  were  going  south.  It 
was,  as  you  said,  about  a  mile  north  of  the  road-house. 
You  arrived  at  the  road-house  at  exactly  five  minutes  till 
twelve.  Now,  where  were  you  in  the  meantime?  " 

"I — "  Was  the  question  unexpected?  The  wit- 
ness hesitated  just  a  moment;  then  he  continued,  "I 
stopped  at  an  Indian  encampment  which  I  ran  into  a 
little  ways  ahead.  They  were  camping  close  to  the 
trail  and  I  stayed  with  them  until  way  on  into  the  night. 

[259] 


?THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

I  was  trying  to  make  a  horse  trade  but  the  cusses  wanted 
to  cheat  me,  so  finally  I  went  on  with  my  own  horse." 

With  the  coming  of  night  again,  the  Government 
rested. 


1 260 1 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  YOU  HAVE  HAD  A  PRETTY  DREAM  '* 

TWO  things  occurred  on  the  last  day  of  that  trial 
which  made  it  long  remembered.  The  first  in- 
cident, although  not  so  sensational  as  the  last,  was  note- 
worthy in  that,  while  to  the  superficial  observer  it  was 
merely  so  unusual  as  to  gratify  the  lust  of  humanity 
for  new  excitement,  it  went  far  deeper  than  that  to  the 
thoughtful,  and  showed  as  unerringly  as  a  compass 
points  the  direction,  what  influence,  of  all  the  various 
influences  rampant  in  the  Indian  country  —  military, 
political,  financial;  the  influence  of  the  soldier,  of  pol- 
itician, of  trader;  of  fear,  selfishness,  and  greed;  and 
of  the  quiet,  selfless,  unassuming,  fearless  and  fear- 
taking-away,  loving  influence  of  the  White  Robe  — 
what  influence  of  all  these  was  making  most  for  the 
regeneration  of  the  Sioux. 

It  was  just  as  Locke  Raynor  was  taking  the  chair  in 
his  own  defence  that  the  door  opened  to  admit  a  strange- 
looking  man.  He  was  tall,  lean,  commanding.  His 
chin  was  up.  He  was  blanketed,  and  there  was  a  single 
feather  in  his  straggling  black  hair.  Where  his  robe 
fell  away  from  his  chest,  there  was  disclosed,  partially, 
a  gay  jacket  of  very  finely  cured  deerskin,  most  elab- 

[261] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

orately  decorated  with  designs  worked  in  colored  beads 
and  porcupine  quills.  Running  Bird  had  discarded  all 
pretence  of  dressing  like  the  whites  since  he  had  taken 
to  the  wilderness;  and  he  was  arrayed  in  his  best  be- 
cause he  did  not  care  to  be  an  object  of  scorn  to  the 
conceited  usurpers  of  the  kingdom  of  his  allies  —  the 
Yanktons  —  who  had  been  long  since  pushed  up  the  river 
to  make  way  for  the  proud  sun  race.  His  piercing 
eyes  surveyed  calmly,  with  a  touch  of  disdain,  the  packed 
mass  of  sombrously  clad  white  men  with  its  sprinkling 
of  more  gayly  dressed  white  squaws.  People  near  him 
stared  curiously  at  this  unexpected  appearance  of  an 
aboriginal,  direct  from  the  hostile  country.  He  was 
not  a  peaceful  Yankton  —  that  was  plain  enough  to 
connoisseurs  in  tribal  distinctions.  What  was  his  busi- 
ness? It  was  a  far  cry  from  that  great  unblazed  west- 
ern wilderness  to  the  gay  little  capital  city  at  the  forks 
of  the  two  big  rivers.  The  newcomer  continued  to  gaze 
about  him  for  a  minute  or  two,  standing  motionless  at 
the  door,  and  then  suddenly  strode  soundlessly  down 
the  middle  aisle.  He  did  not  hesitate  on  the  way  for- 
ward, but  many  shrank  back,  nervously,  as  he  passed 
them.  When  he  had  come  to  the  Agency  group,  he 
stopped  and  waited.  Stolid  and  indifferent,  he  stood, 
as  if  all  this  sea  of  faces  did  not  exist.  Then  people 
saw  the  young  Missionary  with  the  rapt  countenance 
(whom  many  had  come  to  remember  because  he  was 
always  there  and  because  of  his  manifest  friendship  for 
the  accused,  and  because,  too,  of  the  beautiful  sunny- 
haired  young  woman  who  was  always  sitting  by  him), 

[262] 


''A     PRETTY     DREAM' 

rise  quickly,  pass  out  into  the  aisle,  and  follow  the 
Indian,  who  turned  as  soon  as  he  perceived  that  the 
Missionary  had  observed  him,  and  was  stalking  out  of 
the  room  without  once  having  spoken  to  any  one. 
When  the  door  closed  upon  the  two,  people  with  a  long 
breath  turned  again  to  the  business  in  hand. 

They  strained  forward  the  better  to  see  the  prisoner. 
They  had  waited  long  for  this  moment.  He  was  a  hand- 
some young  fellow,  and  commanded  interest  on  that 
account,  as  well  as  for  his  undefinable  air  of  better  breed- 
ing than  had  many  of  the  men  who  took  employment  at 
agency  and  trading  post  in  that  early  day.  The  United 
States  Marshal  had  stayed  for  this  moment,  too.  He 
liked  Locke,  but  he  was  an  incorruptible  public  officer. 

"  You  may  state  your  name,"  said  Mr.  Sampson. 

"  Locke  Raynor  Crawford,"  said  Locke,  quietly. 

The  Marshal  started.  He  was  genuinely  surprised. 
The  handkerchief  in  his  inner  pocket  was  not  needed, 
then,  to  try  to  shake  belief  in  the  prisoner's  veracity. 
He  was  at  least  not  perjuring  himself  in  the  very  be- 
ginning. There  was  a  hint  of  a  quizzical  smile  in 
Locke's  eyes  as  he  glanced  for  the  fraction  of  a  second 
in  the  Marshal's  direction.  If  any  one  had  been  look- 
ing at  Special  Inspector  Warlick,  he  would  have  seen 
that  his  face  turned  absolutely  livid  at  the  quiet  an- 
nouncement. Down  in  front,  the  name  meant  nothing 
to  a  girl  who  had  long  realized  that  she  did  not  know 
this  man's  whole  name;  but  oh,  how  fervently  she  had 
hoped  that  knowledge  of  his  past  and  present  connec- 
tions might  be  brought  to  light  at  this  inquisition  which 

[263] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

would  overbalance  the  weight  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence already  recorded  against  him.  She  was  keenly 
•disappointed,  for  she  had  hoped  against  hope  that  the 
name,  when  revealed,  would  be  one  to  conjure  with. 
She  had  not  spoken  to  him  or  visited  him  in  prison 
—  she  had  not  even  nodded  to  him  across  the  inter- 
vening space  since  her  arrival  in  the  city.  He  —  prison- 
branded —  was  as  far  removed  from  her  as  were  the 
stars  in  their  fixed  courses.  He  must  never  come  back 
to  the  Agency.  But  as  one  she  had  known  and  liked 
in  the  old  days  —  so  long  had  those  six  months  been 
that  it  already  seemed  like  the  old  days  —  she  longed 
and  prayed  for  his  acquittal.  This  accomplished,  they 
would  wave  a  cordial  farewell,  smile,  and  each  would  go 
liis  own  way  forevermore. 

"  That  is  not  the  full  name  recorded  at  the  Agency  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Will  you  explain  why  you  let  it  be  understood  that 
jour  name  was  simply  Locke  Raynor?  " 

"  I  was  not  asked  to  tell  my  name,  and  Locke  Raynor 
is  the  name  I  have  gone  by  since  I  have  been  out  here. 
It  is  my  baptismal  name.'* 

"  Please  state  your  age  and  occupation." 

"  I  am  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  I  was  employed  at 
Big  Bend  Agency  as  issue  clerk  when  I  was  arrested." 

-"  When  did  you  come  to  this  Territory  ?  " 

<"fn  July  last." 

'"  Prior  to  that  where  did  you  live?  " 

"  In  New  York  most  of  the  time.  In  Washington 
part  of  the  time." 

[264] 


i,      S 


A     PRETTY     DREAM 


Mr.  Sampson  had  been  warned  of  the  futility  of  try- 
ing to  strengthen  his  defence  by  delving  into  the  past 
of  the  prisoner.  He  was  afraid  his  stubborn  client 
would  spoil  the  case  by  refusing  to  answer,  so  he 
proceeded  to  call  upon  Locke  to  tell  the  story  of  his 
movements  on  the  day  of  the  murder  in  his  own  words. 
Locke  told  it  simply  and  straightforwardly,  but  it  was 
evident  that  he  had  lost  caste  with  the  crowd  by 
reason  of  the  deception  concerning  his  name.  Doubt- 
less he  had  good  cause  for  hiding  his  identity  when  he 
came  to  bury  it  in  the  Indian  country.  Dire  might 
have  been  his  crimes,  and  people's  imaginations  were 
immediately  set  to  working  over-time.  He  could  not 
even  remember  from  what  source  he  had  received  the 
bill.  He  knew  that  he  had  received  a  bill  in  change 
from  Bob  Bent  but  he  had  not  noticed  whether  it  was 
bound  together  with  pink  tissue  paper  or  not.  Pretty 
flimsy  evidence !  He  told  of  Peter  Dorsey's  late  arrival 
at  the  inn  and  of  his  scowling  recognition  of  Locke. 

"  Yes,  I  wore  a  white  felt  hat,"  he  continued.  "  I 
vas  using  it  to  soften  my  saddle  pillow.  I  had  put 
my  horse  in  the  barn." 

The  inference  was  plain.  If  the  prisoner  was  speak- 
ing the  truth,  it  would  have  been  very  easy  for  Peter 
Dorsey  to  know  what  was  the  color  of  his  hat  and  of 
his  horse.  But  the  Chicago  lawyers  were  keen  on 
cross  examination,  too,  and  pitiless. 

"  Your  ways  did  not  separate  at  American  Creek 
Crossing.  Brian  Levering  was  bound  for  Fort  Lincoln 
with  despatches.  The  trail  leads  through  Big  Bend 

[265] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Agency.  Now,  Mr.  Crawford,  will  you  tell  me  why 
you  did  not  continue  with  the  young  man?  You  were 
keen  for  his  company  out  of  Yankton  —  as  he  told  his 
brother  Michael.  Why  did  you  stop  and  he  go  on  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  ascertain  if  the  whiskey  smug- 
glers —  the  Dorsey  gang  —  had  really  quit  the  country 
or  were  still  connected  with  the  road-house,"  answered 
Locke,  deliberately.  "  Brian  wanted  to  travel  by  night 
and  save  time.  He  would  not  wait.  I  decided  to  stay 
and  investigate  the  situation.  So  we  parted." 

"  You  mean  you  left  the  road-house  together  and  that 
you  returned  alone,  and  that  the  next  day  Brian  Lever- 
ing was  found  foully  murdered  not  a  half  mile  from  the 
trail  you  rode  together.  Why  did  you  start  out  with 
him?" 

"  To  show  him  the  way  and  to  wish  him  God-speed." 

Major  Mendenhall  testified  to  the  excellent  service 
the  accused  had  given  while  an  employee  of  the  Govern- 
ment, and  of  the  good  reputation  he  had  always  borne 
at  the  Agency.  So  did  Hugh  Hunt,  who  had  long 
since  returned  to  the  court  room.  But  as  neither  had 
known  Locke  long,  their  testimony  could  not  have  much 
weight.  And  then  Sampson  sprang  a  surprise  on  the 
prisoner. 

"  We  will  call  Katharine  Mendenhall,"  he  said,  in  a 
loud,  clear  voice. 

She  was  trembling  slightly,  but  no  one  realized  it, 
and  her  voice  could  be  heard  in  all  parts  of  the  room, 
so  quiet  had  it  become.  She  had  removed  her  coat, 
but  her  dark  fur  cap  still  rested  lightly  on  her  mass  of 

[  266  ] 


'  '  A     PRETTY     DREAM1 

shining  hair.  She  did  not  have  much  to  say,  but  she 
told  in  a  calm,  impassionate  manner  of  the  upright 
character  the  accused  had  always  made  manifest  since 
she  had  known  him.  The  junior  member  had  reasoned 
well  when  he  counted  on  her  beauty  and  daintiness  to 
gain  sympathy  for  the  prisoner.  As  for  Locke,  after 
one  great  heart-bound  of  joy  at  her  unexpected  ap- 
pearance in  his  behalf,  he  soon  became  despondent  again, 
accounting  her  action  as  the  result  of  pressure  brought 
to  bear  by  her  father  and  the  Missionary.  She  was 
not  cross-examined.  As  she  stepped  down,  Hugh 
Hunt  touched  Mr.  Sampson  on  the  shoulder  and  whis- 
pered to  him.  The  lawyer's  face  lighted  and  he  nodded 
in  a  pleased  way. 

"  We  will  call  Black  Tomahawk,  a  Chief  of  the  Yank- 
tonais,"  he  said,  and  then  the  strange  visitation  of  an 
earlier  hour  wras  remembered. 

It  was  not  that  visitor  who  took  the  witness  chair, 
however,  as  many  expected.  Two  men  followed  the 
Missionary  from  an  anteroom.  One  of  them  was  an 
old  man,  and  he  it  was  who  took  the  chair,  while  the 
younger  assumed  his  post  as  interpreter.  Black  Toma- 
hawk did  not  seem  cognizant  of  the  vast  concourse  of 
people  about  him.  He  had  a  placid,  introspective  look, 
and  sat  stolidly  upon  his  chair,  with  his  shoulders 
slouched  forward,  and  paid  not  the  slightest  attention 
to  any  one  or  anything  —  seemingly.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  deaf  and  blind  and  mute,  as  far  as  any  outward 
show  of  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  others  was  con- 
cerned. He  was  in  no  haste  to  answer  questions.  When 

[267] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

Running  Bird  repeated  to  him  in  Dakota  the  lawyer's 
first  interrogation,  it  was  as  if  he  had  not  heard  it. 
He  continued  gazing  absent-mindedly.  The  lawyer  re- 
peated his  question,  but  Running  Bird  did  not  repeat 
his  interpretation.  It  was  not  necessary.  Black  Tom- 
ahawk had  heard  and  presently  he  answered.  Thus,  lit- 
tle by  little,  his  testimony  was  drawn  from  the  old  Chief. 
He  had  been  persuaded  by  Running  Bird  who,  sore  of 
heart  because  of  the  influence  that  was  keeping  his 
lodge  empty,  still  had  accomplished  this  righteousness 
for  Hugh  Hunt's  sake,  and,  yes,  who  knows,  perhaps 
for  the  sake  of  the  man  who  did  not  cry  out.  He  had 
been  camping  out  in  the  bluffs,  but  not  so  near  the  trail 
as  Peter  Dorsey  had  said.  Peter  Dorsey  had  not  visited 
his  camp  at  all.  There  had  been  no  horse  trade  nor  at- 
tempt at  a  horse  trade,  because  no  one  had  visited  his 
camp.  But  he  had  seen  a  man  riding  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  trail  in  the  vicinity  of  the  place  where  the 
murdered  man  was  afterwards  found.  The  man  wore  a 
slouchy  looking  black  hat  and  rode  a  gray  horse.  He 
had  thought  at  the  time  that  the  man  was  Peter  Dorsey. 
Yes,  he  had  seen  Peter  Dorsey  many  times.  He  was 
quite,  quite  sure  the  man  was  Peter  Dorsey.  Peter 
Dorsey  had  often  sold  whiskey  to  Black  Tomahawk's 
young  men.  He  remembered  him  well.  The  man  he 
saw  wore  a  black  slouch  hat  and  rode  a  gray  horse. 

When  the  metropolitan  lawyer  began  his  cross  ex- 
amination, he  began  confidently,  even  buoyantly.  He 
was  troubled  with  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  to  his 
ability  to  tear  the  old  Chief's  testimony  to  shreds. 

[268] 


'  A     PRETTY     DREAM 


9     9 


What  a  travesty  to  pit  aboriginal  ignorance  and  mind 
limitations  against  the  cultured  mentality  of  ages !  He 
questioned  him  rigidly  as  to  his  identification  of  the 
man.  He  soon  learned  that  rapid-fire  questions  would 
not  avail.  Black  Tomahawk  was  not  to  be  hurried  or 
confused,  and  Running  Bird  was  a  deliberate  interpre- 
ter. After  a  rather  unsatisfactory  attempt  to  tangle 
the  witness,  the  lawyer  asked : 

"  Now,  Mr.  Black  Tomahawk,  is  n't  it  a  fact  that 
you  have  become  a  little  confused  in  regard  to  colors, 
and  instead  of  the  man's  wearing  a  black  hat  and  riding 
a  gray  horse,  he  wore  a  white  hat  and  rode  a  dark 
colored  horse?  And  is  n't  it  also  a  fact  that  twilight 
was  beginning  to  settle  among  the  hills,  and  at  the  dis- 
tance you  were  from  him,  it  was  impossible  for  you  to 
form  an  idea  as  to  his  identity?  " 

Black  Tomahawk's  countenance  was  imperturbable, 
as  unresponsive  as  that  of  a  bronze  cast.  His  eyes  were 
seemingly  thousands  of  miles  away  from  the  crowded 
court  room,  and  his  impatient  interlocutor.  Presently, 
he  said  something  in  an  indifferent  tone  of  voice,  as  if 
it  were  not  at  all  in  answer  to  anything  the  lawyer  might 
have  said,  but  as  if  he  were  communing  with  himself. 

"  He  does  not  answer  your  question,"  said  Running 
Bird. 

"  Well,  what  does  he  say  ?  "  asked  the  lawyer,  im- 
patiently. 

"  He  says  you  have  had  a  pretty  dream." 

The  arguments  were  long  and  heated.  The  prosecu- 
tion made  a  strong  case  out  of  the  bill  pasted  with  its 

[269] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

fateful  trifle  of  pink  tissue  paper,  the  prisoner's  going 
out  with  Brian  Levering  and  returning  alone,  and  all 
of  Peter  Dorsey's  damaging  testimony.  He  bitterly 
impeached  the  trumped-up  story  of  Black  Tomahawk^ 
and  implored  the  jury  not  to  weigh  a  respectable,  God- 
fearing white  man's  sacred  word  on  oath  against  that  of 
an  ignorant,  unreliable  Indian  —  one  of  a  race  of 
proverbial  liars  who  had  no  conception  of  the  meaning 
of  the  term  sacred  oath,  but  who  had  an  insatiable 
greed  for  notoriety.  There  were  few  dry  eyes  in  the 
court  room  when  he  pictured  the  young  patriot  riding 
so  cheerily  and  so  unconsciously  into  the  sunset  — 
death.  He  dwelt  upon  the  awfulness  of  the  sacrifice  — 
a  clean,  noble,  upright,  patriotic  boy,  whom  his 
country  needed,  foully  shot  in  the  back  by  a  black- 
hearted coward,  whom  the  East  had  spit  out  for  his 
criminal  worthlessness,  and  who  had  slunk  hither  under 
an  assumed  name  to  evade  the  sleuth  hounds  of  an  in- 
dignant justice.  If  the  prisoner  was  not  in  hiding, 
why  did  not  some  of  his  friends  come  out  of  the  East 
in  his  behalf? 

Sampson  fought  hard  for  Locke.  He  in  turn 
scathingly  impeached  the  testimony  of  a  man  who  made 
a  business  of  selling  forbidden  whiskey  to  the  Indians, 
and  of  the  bought  or  fear-struck  craven  road-house 
keeper.  He  spoke  feelingly  of  the  tried  patriotism  and 
loyalty  of  their  country's  red  children,  and  dwelt 
reverently  upon  the  divine  influence  of  the  White  Robe 
which  had  led  Running  Bird  and  Black  Tomahawk,  ab- 
solutely unsolicited,  because  none  knew  of  the  old 

[270] 


'  '  A     PRETTY     DREAM3 

Chief's  presence  on  the  fateful  ground  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  Summer  evening,  to  journey  over  two 
hundred  miles  of  rough  roads  in  the  dead  of  Winter  to 
speak  the  truth.  He  made  much  of  the  testimony  of 
men  of  such  known  integrity  as  the  Missionary  and 
Major  Mendenhall,  and  of  the  fearless  stand  for  the 
right  made  by  the  Major's  beautiful,  refined,  and  high- 
principled  daughter. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  the 
jury  went  out.  Shortly  after  supper,  the  Major 
stepped  into  Katharine's  room  at  the  hotel  and  told  her 
that  the  jury  had  agreed.  He  had  promised  her  that 
she  should  be  informed  immediately  when  an  agreement 
was  reached.  It  was  her  wish  to  return  and  hear  the 
verdict.  She  turned  deathly  pale,  but  rose  at  once. 

"  So  soon?  "  she  asked,  in  a  smothered  voice. 

"  It  is  a  good  sign,"  said  the  Major,  cheerily.  "  It 
is  not  so  easy  as  that  to  hang  a  man." 

Mrs.  Mendenhall  pleaded  to  be  left.  She  had  had 
enough  of  courts.  She  was  ready  to  fly  to  pieces  right 
this  minute  from  sheer  nervousness.  So  Katharine  and 
her  father  left  her  and  ploughed  back  to  the  big  dark 
brick  pile  which  was  the  court  house. 

The  officers  were  searching  for  the  clerk  when  they 
arrived.  He  could  not  be  found.  The  jury  filed  in  and 
took  their  places,  silently.  The  defendant  was  brought 
in  and  seated  by  his  attorneys.  He  looked  calm  and  in- 
different. The  suspense  was  terrible.  An  awful  silence 
pervaded  the  room,  which  was  again  well  filled  to  hear 
the  verdict,  rumor  having  said  that  it  was  ready.  It 

[271] 


THE        SPIRIT        T  B  'A  I  E 

seemed  eerie  that  so  many  people  could  for  so  long 
maintain  so  ghostly  a  stillness.  The  lamps  in  their 
brackets  on  the  wall  flared  dimly.  One  on  the  attorneys' 
table  smoked  dismally  until  the  chimney  was  blurred 
with  a  gloomy  murk.  Some  one  reached  out  a  hand  and 
turned  down  the  wick  and  his  hand  cast  a  gigantic 
shadow  on  the  wall.  Somewhere  a  clock  ticked  loudly. 
A  charred  log  fell  in  the  stove  and  a  woman  cried 
out  nervously  at  the  sound.  Where  was  the  clerk? 
Outside,  the  wind  was  blowing  a  February  gale,  and  it 
moaned  drearily  around  the  corners  of  the  building. 
It  was  full  fifteen  minutes  before  the  clerk  made  his 
belated  appearance.  To  many,  the  time  had  seemed 
hours. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed  upon  a 
verdict?  "  asked  the  judge. 

"  We  have,  Your  Honor,"  said  the  foreman. 

"  You  may  announce  your  verdict." 

"  We,  the  jury,  find  the  defendant  guilty  of  murder 
in  the  first  degree,  and  recommend  the  death  sentence." 

It  was  then  the  second  event  took  place  which  made 
this  trial  so  long  and  so  especially  remembered.  There 
was  a  heartrending  scream  and  a  woman  sprang  to  her 
feet,  a  young  woman  with  fair  hair  and  death  in  her 
eyes.  In  a  second's  time  she  was  speeding  up  the  aisle 
toward  the  prisoner's  table.  Locke  leaped  to  his  feet 
to  meet  her.  Instantly,  there  was  the  wildest  confu- 
sion. Chairs  were  overturned  promiscuously  in  the 
excitement.  The  officers  of  the  court  rushed  forward 
to  prevent  the  escape  of  the  man  found  guilty. 

£«*] 


''A     PRETTY     DREAM5 

had  no  other  thought  than  that  he  was  taking  this 
chance  for  a  rush  for  his  liberty.  In  the  surge,  Katha- 
rine was  knocked  down.  With  blazing  eyes  and  flushed 
cheeks,  Locke  sprang  over  the  railing  and  struck  out 
right  and  left  with  a  mighty  strength.  Men  fell  like 
dead  weights  at  the  impact  of  his  skilled  muscles.  No 
one  seemed  able  to  lay  a  hand  upon  him.  The  whole 
body  of  the  court  room  was  on  its  feet,  a  wild,  surging, 
shouting  mob  of  people. 

At  last  Sampson  managed  to  worm  his  way  through 
the  squirming  mass  to  the  side  of  the  enraged  man. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Raynor,  quiet  down !  Don't  do 
anything  rash  now !  We  '11  get  you  a  new  trial  and 
have  you  out  of  this  yet.  Sit  down !  You  are  ruining 
your  chances.  Sit  down,  man,  for  God's  sake !  " 

"  I  am  not  trying  to  escape,  Mr.  Sampson,"  cried 
Locke,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  but  they  must  keep  off  that 
girl!  Look  at  them!  They  are  trampling  her  to 
death!" 

He  struck  out  again  with  telling  force,  made  his 
way  to  the  crumpled  heap  of  white-faced  girl  on  the 
floor,  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  leaped  upon  the  platform 
and  stood  thus  separated  from  the  surging,  panic- 
stricken  mass  of  people,  still  holding  the  unconscious 
girl  in  his  arms. 

The  time  was  not  yet  when  men  would  seriously  con- 
sider the  word  of  an  Indian  as  against  that  of  a  white 
man,  in  all  equity,  no  matter  how  honorable  the  one  or 
how  debased  the  other. 

I*  [  273  ] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

THE  two  weeks  following  the  tragic  close  of  the 
trial  seemed  the  longest  that  Locke  had  ever 
lived  through.  They  took  Katharine  from  him  that 
night  —  her  frantic  father  and  the  Missionary  —  none 
others,  for  he  stood  at  bay  against  all  until  they  came. 
After  they  had  taken  her  from  his  arms,  he  offered  no 
more  resistance.  There  was  nothing  else  to  fight  for; 
but  oh,  his  arms  felt  empty,  empty !  What  unmitigated 
idiocy  those  foolish,  panting,  hysterical  officers  dis- 
played when  they  finally  threw  themselves  upon  him  — 
a  full  half-dozen  of  them  —  battling  as  if  their  very 
lives  depended  upon  overpowering  him  that  minute. 
He  laughed  in  their  faces  when  they  slipped  handcuffs 
upon  his  wrists,  all  the  while  grasping  him  as  if  it  took 
the  strength  of  all  six  to  hold  him.  The  situation  de- 
served the  laugh.  He  was  wax  in  their  hands.  He  was 
making  not  the  least  trouble.  Why  should  he  strike 
out  then?  She  was  safe.  There  was  nothing  else  to 
do  but  to  go  back  to  his  cell  and  wait.  He  had  not 
seen  anything  in  a  long,  long  time  so  amusing  as  those 
flushed^  excited,  determined  faces,  as  he  was  clutched 
.and  mauled  and  half  crushed  by  the  weight  of  the  many 

[274] 


LOCKE     OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

who  were  so  desperately  anxious  to  manacle  the  one,  and 
him  defenceless  and  as  willing  to  be  bound  and  led  away 
out  of  the  turmoil  as  they  were  to  have  him.  He  did  not 
care  for  anything  after  Katharine  had  been  taken  from 
him.  But  they  acted  as  if  he  were  a  maniac  who  laughed 
at  strait- jackets  or  a  desperado  armed  to  the  teeth.  No 
wonder  he  laughed.  He  laughed  again  now  in  think- 
ing about  it. 

They  had  taken  his  mate  from  him.  He  had  recog- 
nized his  mate  the  moment  she  cried  out  in  distress^ 
Did  she  know  him  now  as  he  knew  her?  His  heart  had 
been  in  his  answering  cry.  He  had  tried  to  tell  her.  But 
they  had  taken  her  away  and  now  he  could  never  know. 
He  had  hoped  that  she  would  look  up  and  perhaps 
smile  before  the  door  closed  behind  her  forever.  He 
should  have  known  then.  But  she  had  not  done  either 
thing.  She  had  only  lain  white  and  quiet  against  her 
father's  shoulder  as  he  bore  her  from  the  room.  So 
he  should  never  know.  Over  and  over  again  during 
those  long  days  he  had  wished  that  she  had  smiled. 
Death  —  it  was  nothing  if  she  had  only  smiled.  Death  ? 
To  be  sure,  and  why  not?  It  had  to  be  faced.  Of 
course  Sampson  had  moved  for  a  new  trial  and  it  had 
been  granted ;  but  that  did  not  mean  much.  It  was  easy 
to  obtain  a  new  trial  in  a  murder  case.  It  would  not 
help  him  to  see  Katharine.  They  would  never  let  her 
come  again.  She  had  probably  already  been  spirited 
back  to  that  East  which  had  cradled  them  both.  He 
was  in  absolute  ignorance  of  the  movements  of  the 
Agency  party  after  the  door  had  closed  upon  them- 

[275] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Even  Hugh  Hunt  had  not  been  to  see  him  after  the 
iirst  day  of  his  reincarceration.  He  might  have  gone 
East,  too.  They  all  did  go  back  sooner  or  later  —  these 
pious-faced,  preaching  chaps  —  whenever  a  good  op- 
portunity to  get  out  gracefully  presented  itself;  and 
then  they  spent  the  rest  of  their  days  in  manufacturing 
new  doses  of  moral  suasion  to  induce  other  misguided 
people  to  go  out  and  continue  the  work  which  they 
themselves  had  so  gloriously  instituted.  This  man  had 
seemed  different ;  but  if  Katharine  went,  the  provocation 
would  be  great  —  and  it  was  a  God-forsaken  country, 
this,  where  men  were  hanged  for  other  men's  holiday. 

There  was  the  j  ailer  again.  Was  it  morning  then  — 
or  —  noon  —  or  night?  Had  he  just  breakfasted  or 
lunched  or  dined?  He  could  not  remember.  But  if  a 
meal  were  coming,  he  could  not  have  done  any  one  of  the 
three ;  and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  just  eaten.  Where, 
then,  had  the  time  gone?  Time  was  all  so  unmarked 
here.  It  was  not  the  jailer  after  all,  however,  but  the 
sheriff,  and  Locke  glanced  up  with  a  show  of  interest  in 
his  usually  indifferent  expression.  The  sheriff  was  a 
good  fellow,  and  his  presence  was  a  happy  relief  from 
the  dull  companionship  of  the  jailer. 

"  It  ain't  Spring  yet  by  a  long  shot,"  was  the 
sheriff's  greeting,  as  he  felt  gingerly  of  his  ears  to 
make  sure  that  they  were  not  frozen. 

"  Winter  or  Summer  —  it 's  all  alike  to  me,"  replied 
Locke,  listlessly. 

"  Lost  your  grit  ?  "  asked  the  sheriff,  with  a  keen 
look.  "  You  ain't  got  as  much  spunk  as  a  rabbit." 

[276] 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  just  don't  care,"  said  Locke,  with  a- 
smile. 

"  Sampson  's  workin'  like  the  devil.  He  '11  get  you 
out  if  anybody  can.  It 's  funny  how  things  work  out. 
He  was  plumb  crazy  that  night,  he  was  so  dead  sure 
you  were  knockin'  out  the  underpins  of  your  chances 
for  a  new  trial;  and  now  here  he  is  makin'  capital  by 
the  gallon,  or  by  the  bankful,  whichever  expression 
suits  you  best,  out  of  that  very  grand-stand  play  of 
yours.  The  way  things  finally  did  turn  out,  I  reckon 
you  and  she  made  more  friends  than  you  lost  by  that 
little  fracas,  all  right,"  and  the  sheriff  grinned  in  a  very 
friendly  manner,  only  to  become  the  next  moment  as 
gloomy  as  he  had  been  beaming  before.  Locke  was  so 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  however,  that  he  did  not 
notice  the  quick  transition. 

"  Where  is  Major  Mendenhall ?  "  he  asked,  without 
circumlocution.  He  was  determined  to  know  the  worst 
at  once.  He  should  wonder  no  longer. 

"  Up  to  Big  Bend,"  said  the  sheriff,  the  gloom  on 
his  face  deepening. 

"When  did  he  return?" 

"  A  day  or  two  after  the  trial  —  I  don't  j  ust  re- 
member when." 

"  His  family  accompanied  him  of  course  ?  " 

"  Of  course  —  more 's  the  pity." 

"  Why  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  demanded  Locke, 
quickly. 

"  Nothing.  I  did  n't  mean  anything  really,"  said  the 
sheriff,  a  little  hurriedly.  "  But  it 's  such  a  long  hard 

[277] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

trip  for  gentlewomen.  They  must  have  been  just  about 
worn  out." 

"Tell  me  — is  Miss  Mendenhall  ill?"  asked  Locke, 
insistently.  "  You  might  as  well  tell  me,  Mr.  Oliver. 
I  will  know." 

"  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  —  honest,"  pleaded 
the  sheriff.  "  It  was  a  slip.  I  did  n't  mean  to.  You 
can't  do  anything,  and  it  will  just  worry  you  for  noth- 
ing." 

"  She  took  cold  on  the  journey  and  has  pneumonia 
or  worse?  "  persisted  Locke,  steadily. 

"  No,  she  ain't  sick  —  leastways  I  trust  she  ain't," 
said  the  sheriff,  with  stammering  hesitation. 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  Well,  you  see,"  the  sheriff  was  desperate  and  saw 
no  other  way  out  of  the  difficulty  than  by  telling  the 
perfect  truth,  "  we  just  got  word  from  the  Agency  a 
little  while  ago  and  —  and  — " 

"  Yes,  and  — "  prompted  Locke,  though  his  heart 
was  hammering  away  so  violently  it  seemed  as  if  he 
must  choke  presently,  and  he  found  himself  wondering 
what  he  would  do  if  Stephen  Oliver  told  him  that  she 
was  dead. 

"  And  she  —  the  Agent's  girl,  you  know  —  well,  they 
don't  know  where  she  is  —  that 's  all.  She  's  showed 
up  missing.  It  seems  she  went  out  a-horseback  a  few 
days  ago  —  said  she  was  goin'  to  see  a  young  Injun 
who  was  dyin'  with  consumption.  She  never  came 
back.  Yes,  she  went  to  that  Injun's  tipi  all  right. 
His  father  and  mother  both  saw  her.  But  they  did  n't 

[278] 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

know  anything  more  than  that  she  had  started  for 
home  after  visitin'  awhile  and  leavin'  some  things. 
They  're  thrashin'  out  two  notions  up  there  to  the 
Agency,  it  seems.  One  is  that  she  and  her  horse  got 
into  the  river  somehow  —  an  airhole  probably  —  or 
else  that  she  's  been  took  by  a  band  of  hostiles.  I  don't 
take  to  either  notion  much.  It  seems  there  were  n't  no 
airholes  anywheres  near,  and  there  was  n't  ary  sign  of 
rotten  ice  either.  If  she 's  in  the  river,  it 's  because 
she  left  the  trail ;  and  why  should  she  have  done  that  with 
it  gettin'  so  late  and  settin'  in  to  storm,  too?  I  don't 
put  a  bit  of  stock  in  the  Injun  scare  neither.  The 
Little  Yanktons  set  a  heap  of  store  by  the  big-necked 
Agent  of  theirs,  I  'm  told ;  and  as  for  the  hostiles  — 
what  would  those  damned  Tetons  be  skulkin'  around  the 
Agency  for?  They  don't  deserve  anything  from  the 
Government,  and  they  know  it,  and  keep  to  their  own 
side  of  the  river.  They  would  n't  dare  steal  a  white 
girl  right  from  under  the  very  nose  of  the  United 
States  military.  That  idea  's  nonsense  —  plumb  non- 
sense. It  beats  the  devil  and  the  Dutch  what  peculiar 
notions  some  misinformed  folks  do  hug  to  themselves 
as  to  the  power  and  daring  of  that  handful  of  prowling, 
dirty,  cowardly  sneaks.  We  can  dismiss  that  premise 
as  absolutely  preposterous.  There  ain't  a  bigger 
coward  in  the  world  than  an  Injun  coward." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Locke,  slowly,  putting  a  prison- 
whitened  hand  to  his  forehead  to  brush  away  the  rags 
of  mist  that  had  seemed  to  flutter  before  his  brain  ever 
since  that  first  terrible  announcement.  "  I  have  heard 

[279] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

—  some  one  told  me  —  it  was  Hugh  Hunt,  I  think  — 
that  many  of  the  hostiles  —  especially  the  unsettled 
Ernies  —  hang  around  the  vicinity  of  the  several 
Agencies  during  the  Winter,  sometimes  accepting  rations 
from  the  too  good-natured  Agents,  more  often  as  para- 
sites living  off  the  bounty  of  their  friends.  But  it  is 
too  horrible.  I  could  not  bear  that.  My  Godl  Not 
that!" 

"  I  don't  think  you  '11  have  to,"  said  the  sheriff,  with 
a  consolatory  shake  of  the  head.  "  That 's  the  last 
place  in  the  world  I  'd  look  for  her.  Now,  this  is  my 
guess.  I  'low  she  ain't  been  quite  the  same  since  that 
break-down  in  the  court  room  you  know  and  I  '11  bet 
you  she  just  up  and  breaks  away  from  the  whole  blamed 
business  and  hits  the  trail  for  that  old  home  o'  hern  back 
in  the  States.  Yes,  sir.  Next  thing  we  '11  hear  from 
that  quarter  is  that  she  has  arrived  safe,  and  please  will 
her  ma  hurry  home  'cause  she  's  lonesome.  I  '11  bet  you 
the  Major's  never  thought  of  that.  It's  too  simple. 
I  believe  I  '11  send  him  a  hint." 

"  Oliver,"  cried  Locke,  suddenly  and  sharply,  "  I 
must  get  out  of  here  at  once !  " 

"  Good !  I  wish  you  could.  How  you  goin'  to  work 
it,  son  ? "  asked  the  sheriff,  with  sympathetic  good- 
nature. 

"  I  must  be  bailed  out  at  once.  You  must  see  to  it 
without  an  instant's  delay.  Telegraph  to — " 

"  Too  bad,  son,"  interrupted  Stephen  Oliver,  "  but 
you  know  you  ain't  in  here  for  a  bailable  offence." 

"  True !  My  God,  true !  "  and  down  went  the  brown 
[280] 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

head  upon  a  pair  of  stalwart  arms  in  an  utter  abandon- 
ment of  despair.  Not  for  anything  else  under  the 
sun  but  for  Katharine's  sake  would  he  have  asked  for 
help,  and  now  it  was  too  late. 

"  Don't  take  it  so  hard,"  urged  the  sheriff.  "  As  I 
said  before,  I  can  fairly  see  that  little  minx  a-swingin' 
on  the  gate  back  there  and  a-laughin'  up  her  sleeve  fit 
to  kill  at  all  this  hubbub  she  's  set  a-goin'." 

Locke  looked  up.  His  eyes  were  clear  and  steady 
once  more.  The  paroxysm  of  despair  had  passed. 

"  You  will  let  me  out  to-night,"  he  said,  with  such 
convincing  finality  that  for  a  moment  the  sheriff  found 
himself  supposing  that  of  course  he  would,  since  Locke 
seemed  to  know  so  well  that  he  would,  "  and  I  will  give 
you  my  word  of  honor  —  I  am  a  gentleman,  Stephen 
Oliver,  you  know  that,  don't  you  ?  —  that  I  will  come 
back  to  jail  just  as  soon  as  ever  I  have  discovered  what 
has  happened  to  Miss  Mendenhall.  I  will  come  back. 
You  have  my  word." 

"  Aw,  come  off  now,  sonny,  you  know  I  can't  do  any- 
thing like  that,"  said  the  sheriff,  miserably.  "  I  ain't 
got  any  authority  to  do  anything  like  that,  and  you 
know  it.  Go  easy  on  a  fellow,  can't  you?  I'm  sorry 
enough  as  it  is." 

"  Do  you  doubt  that  I  would  keep  my  word?  " 

"  No,  I  actually  believe  you'd  be  damned  fool  enough 
to  come  back ;  but  that  don't  let  me  out.  Shut  up  now 
like  a  good  fellow.  I  've  got  to  go.  And  don't  you 
be  pesterin'  yourself  'cause  you  can't  get  out.  You 
can't  help  it  and  I  can't  help  it,  so  what 's  the  use  of 

[281] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

botherin'?     Besides,  she  's  got  regiments  of  friends,  and 
I  reckon  they  ain't  a  goin'  to  leave  nothin'  undone." 
"  Then  you  refuse  to  let  me  out  on  parole?  " 
"  I  do,"  snapped  the  sheriff,  wearying  of  the  useless 
importunity. 

When  he  had  gone,  Locke  sat  down  to  think  it  all 
out  clearly.  There  was  good  reason  for  the  sudden 
passing  of  his  despair.  It  had  come  to  him  all  at  once 
—  this  determination  to  escape.  It  had  clarified  his 
brain  and  steadied  his  thought.  It  was  an  inspiration, 
and  he  would  ever  hold  his  eyes  to  the  light  of  it  until 
the  end  should  be  accomplished.  Such  a  thought  had 
never  entered  his  mind  before.  He  had  not  wished  to 
escape  before.  Freedom  without  honor  would  be  but 
a  brackish  draught  with  no  joy  of  life  in  it.  But  now 
he  would  escape  from  this  hated  place.  No  power 
on  earth  could  stay  him.  He  had  no  more  doubt  of 
it  than  he  had  of  finding  Katharine  once  he  was  out. 
Of  course  he  would  find  Katharine.  No  one  loved  her 
as  he  loved  her.  Who,  then,  would  press  the  fight  for 
her  as  he  would?  No  one  was  as  strong  to  endure 
physical  hardship  as  he  was.  Who,  then,  so  logically 
the  one  to  lead  forced  marches?  The  military?  He 
laughed  aloud  —  though  softly.  A  million  men  with 
colors  flying,  rifles  gleaming,  horses  prancing,  and 
bands  playing  might  march  from  Big  Bend  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains  and  back  again  and  then  take  up  the 
march  from  the  Platte,  face  north,  and  tramp  and  tramp 
and  tramp  until  they  must  salute  the  flag  of  a  queen, 
and  yet  never  see  a  Sioux.  He  had  modified  his  views  of 

[282] 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

the  efficiency  of  the  military  in  Indian  warfare  since 
his  residence  in  the  Indian's  own  country.  But  he 
would  find  Katharine  —  if  she  were  alive.  He  never 
doubted  it.  He  would  come  back  then  and  they  could 
do  with  him  as  they  would.  He  was  in  honor  bound. 

Yes,  he  must  escape  this  night  —  sooner  if  possible. 
The  only  question  which  remained  to  be  settled,  then,  was 
—  how  ?  He  calmly  went  over  the  whole  situation  in  his 
mind.  During  the  night  and  most  of  the  day  as  well, 
he  was  confined  in  a  steel  cage;  but  the  sheriff  or  the 
jailer  usually  let  him  out  for  a  little  rest  to  eat  his 
meals  in  the  main  room.  The  jail  was  a  one-story 
frame  building  about  forty  feet  long  by  twenty  wide. 
There  was  but  one  outside  door,  the  front  entrance. 
This  door  led  into  a  small  vestibule,  from  which  a  much 
heavier  door  opened  into  the  jail  room.  Locke  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  windows  and  the  walls.  It  was 
hopeless  to  count  on  any  help  from  them.  Even  sup- 
pose that  he  should  be  fortunate  enough  to  rid  himself 
of  the  presence  of  the  j  ailer  for  a  considerable  length  of 
time,  what  then?  If  only  he  might  manage  someway 
to  overpower  the  man  and  take  the  key  from  him! 
But  that  was  not  a  promising  prospect  either.  The 
man  was  always  well-armed  and  took  a  fiendish  delight 
in  being  ever  on  the  alert.  It  was  almost  noon,  and  he 
must  think  fast.  If  he  could  only  perfect  a  plan  be- 
fore the  jailer  came  with  his  dinner!  He  must  —  for 
Katharine's  sake.  Why,  she  was  his  mate  —  the  one 
woman  in  all  the  world  for  him.  What  if  they  could 
never  come  together?  Was  she  any  the  less  his  because 


THE      SPIRIT      TRAIL; 

of  this  cruel  turn  of  fortune's  wheel?  She  was  his  and 
perhaps  in  some  fairer  world  —  one  of  those  star 
worlds,  it  might  be,  which  had  gleamed  so  radiantly  in 
a  soft  Summer  sky  on  the  first  night  of  a  journey  he 
and  she  had  begun  as  strangers  faring  together  only 
to  lighten  a  long  way  to  a  common  destination  by  com- 
panionship! Why,  he  was  becoming  as  visionary  a 
dreamer  as  ever  the  Missionary  could  be  in  his  maddest 
moments.  To  work,  Locke  Raynor  Crawford,  to  work 
now !  There  will  be  time  enough  for  dreams  by  and  by. 

The  jailer  was  approaching.  Locke's  face  was 
placidly  indifferent.  The  man  placed  the  dinner  basket 
upon  a  small  table  standing  outside  the  cage,  unlocked 
the  door,  and  Locke  stepped  out  with  a  yawn.  He 
stretched  himself  with  a  luxurious  sense  of  comfort  in 
an  enlarged  environment. 

"  I  think  it  is  certainly  a  criminal  act  to  cramp  a 
fellow  up  in  a  box  like  that,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  para- 
lyzed with  inaction."  He  was  walking  about  as  he 
spoke,  slowly  but  enjoyingly,  occasionally  striking  out 
with  his  fists  just  to  renew  life  in  his  muscles.  The 
jailer  had  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Working  up  an  appetite?  "  he  asked. 

"  Trying  to,"  replied  Locke,  increasing  his  stride  a 
trifle.  "  When  a  fellow  has  nothing  to  look  forward 
to  all  day  long  but  his  meals,  he  surely  has  need  to 
relish  them.  Is  it  the  same  old  thing,  or  did  you  man- 
age to  smuggle  in  something  eatable  this  time?  "  He 
sniffed  toward  the  basket  critically.  "  Is  it  possible 
that  I  smell  a  new  smell?  "  he  cried,  interestedly,  and 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

strode  quickly  toward  the  table.  The  water  pail  was 
sitting  on  the  floor  and  as  he  swung  past  it,  he  swung 
a  little  too  close  and  over  it  went. 

"  Deuce  take  my  awkwardness !  "  he  exclaimed,  pet- 
ulantly, with  a  rueful  gaze  at  the  overturned  bucket. 
"  I  'd  like  to  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  now.  I  have 
been  waiting  hours  for  a  drink."  He  stepped  to  the 
table  and  began  discontentedly  to  examine  the  contents 
of  the  basket.  "  All  sawdust  without  water.  If  that 
water  slopped  all  over  the  floor  is  n't  tantalizing ! " 
He  nibbled  at  a  piece  of  bread  and  put  it  back  with  a 
wry  face.  "  It  simply  chokes  me.  I  have  been  thirsty 
all  the  morning,  and  then  Mr.  Oliver  kept  me  talking 
so  long  besides  that  my  throat  is  parched.  I  reckon 
you  '11  have  to  get  some  more,  old  man.  I  'm  sorry  to 
put  you  to  the  trouble,  but  I  really  can't  eat  a  mouthful 
without  something  to  drink." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  it 's  nearly  zero 
weather  and  the  pump  is  away  round  the  corner," 
grumbled  the  jailer. 

"  You  are  right  —  I  did  not,"  said  Locke,  quietly, 
and  he  turned  wistful  eyes  to  the  blurred  windows. 
"  It  was  Summer  when  I  came  here.  All  the  world  was 
warm  and  sweet.  One  loses  track  in  seven  months. 
Forget  that  I  asked  you  to  go.  I  can  wait  until  night." 

He  replaced  the  contents  of  the  basket  absent-mind- 
edly and  began  his  round  of  walking  again. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  your  dinner?  "  asked  the  jailer, 
surlily,  ashamed  of  being  touched  by  the  pathetic 
apology. 

[285] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Locke  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  is  not  bread  that  is  the  staff  of  life,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  water.  One  goes  mad  without  it." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  all  the  time  I  'd  have  to  go,"  said  the 
jailer,  with  gruff  unwillingness.  "Curse  your  awk- 
wardness, I  say.  You  don't  deserve  it,  but  a  man  has 
to  eat,  I  reckon.  If  you  were  n't  a  sort  of  a  good 
fellow,  hardly  ever  askin'  for  anything,  I  'm  blamed  if 
I  would  n't  let  you  go  thirsty,  and  hungry,  too,  to  pay 
you  for  kickin'  that  bucket  over." 

He  picked  up  the  bucket  and  shuffled  out,  turning 
the  key  very  carefully  on  the  outside  of  the  door.  Of 
course  prisoners  were  not  supposed  to  be  allowed 
the  freedom  of  the  main  jail-room  for  any  length  of 
time;  but  it  was  only  common  humanity  to  let  them  out 
long  enough  to  stretch  themselves  once  in  a  while,  when 
the  jailer  was  on  hand  to  see  that  everything  was  all 
right.  And  was  he  not  on  hand  to-day?  The  door 
was  locked,  the  pump  was  only  two  blocks  away,  and 
it  was  broad  noon  besides. 

Locke  stepped  quickly  to  the  window  and  watched 
him.  When  the  man  had  gone  half  a  block,  he  turned 
the  corner  and  was  out  of  view.  That  was  Locke's 
signal.  He  snatched  the  dinner  knife  from  the  basket, 
sprang  to  the  cage  and  climbed  rapidly  toward  the 
ceiling,  smiling  grimly  to  find  that  his  muscles  had  not 
lost  much  yet  from  the  disuse  of  which  he  had  so  bit- 
terly complained.  From  the  top  of  the  cage,  the  ceil- 
ing was  within  easy  working  distance.  He  jabbed  his 
knife  into  the  plastering  again  and  again  until  he  had 

[286] 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

made  a  hole  sufficiently  large  to  admit  his  hand.  This 
much  accomplished,  he  began  tearing  away  lathing  and 
plastering  in  such  haste  that  his  hands  very  soon  were 
torn  and  bleeding,  but  he  did  not  realize  it.  It  was  not 
long  before  he  had  an  aperture  large  enough  for  him  to 
climb  through.  He  had  to  be  very  careful.  There  was 
no  flooring  and  he  was  compelled  to  walk  upon  the  joists. 
He  had  to  be  very  quick,  too,  because  it  was  cold  and 
the  jailer  would  not  linger  long  at  his  task.  The  attic 
space  was  not  partitioned  off  in  any  way  but  lay  under 
the  roof  the  entire  length  and  breadth  of  the  building. 
This  was  as  he  had  thought  and  hoped  it  would  be. 
The  rest  was  easy  if  only  he  had  calculated  aright 
the  time  the  jailer  must  consume  in  going,  pumping 
his  pail  full,  and  returning.  He  walked  quickly  over 
the  top  of  the  partition  wall  underneath  and  stood 
above  the  vestibule.  He  kicked  a  hole  through  the 
lathing  and  plastering  here  and  dexterously  let  him- 
self down  to  the  floor  beneath.  It  had  all  taken  but  a 
few  moments.  He  was  very  strong  and  his  training 
had  given  him  so  superb  a  mastery  over  his  movements 
that  not  a  second  had  been  wasted.  It  was  a  dangerous 
chance,  but  it  was  the  only  one ;  and  he  had  not  hesitated 
in  taking  it. 

Having  gained  the  floor  of  the  vestibule,  he  ran  to 
the  side  opposite  the  one  from  which  the  jailer  would 
approach,  raised  the  window  and  slipped  out  easily. 
No  prisoner  was  ever  permitted  in  the  vestibule  except 
under  heavy  guard,  so  the  windows  were  not  properly 
bolted  and  barred  as  were  those  of  the  jail  room. 

[287] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRA'Ii; 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  It  was  the  noon  hour  and 
cold  besides.  He  had  counted  on  that,  but  he  was  grate- 
ful to  find  it  so.  The  river  lay  two  or  three  blocks 
to  the  south.  It  must  render  him  a  hiding-place  until 
the  friendly  dark  should  come  to  his  aid.  But  he 
dared  not  run.  That  would  have  raised  the  hue  and 
cry  at  once.  His  long,  rapid  strides,  however,  were  a 
goodly  substitute  for  running,  and  he  soon  reached  the 
steep  bank,  firm  in  the  belief  that  he  had  not  yet  been 
sighted.  The  river  was  extremely  low  —  so  low  that 
a  sand  bar  covered  with  a  young  but  thick  growth  of 
willows  lay  between  the  bluffs  and  the  ice  of  the  main 
channel,  which  in  that  day  hugged  the  Dakota  shore. 
Safety  by  way  of  the  river  had  come  to  him  as  a  real 
but  vaguely  defined  idea  before  ever  he  left  the  jail. 
Now  it  took  form  and  substance  and  became  a  tangible 
thing.  He  cast  one  swift,  backward  glance,  saw  that 
the  chase  had  not  yet  begun,  and  then  slid  down  the 
steep  bank,  paying  not  the  slightest  attention  to  tears 
and  cuts  to  clothes  and  flesh  by  briers  and  the  dry, 
rasping  clutch  of  other  dead  growths  on  the  hillside. 

When  he  had  reached  the  bottom,  he  slipped  a  little 
way  into  the  willow  labyrinth  so  that  he  should  be 
screened  from  view  from  the  heights,  and  then  made  his 
way  rapidly  to  the  west.  He  had  not  yet  taken  time 
to  realize  that  he  was  free.  He  was  not  free.  He 
would  not  be  free  until  he  could  seek  Katharine  with- 
out this  man-hunt  at  his  heels.  But  it  would  not  be 
long  now.  When  the  dark  came,  he  should  be  master 
of  himself  and  of  his  actions  once  more.  It  was  a 

[  288  ] 


LOCKE    OUTWITS    THE    JAILER 

glorious  thought.  Now  he  had  better  go  farther 
within  the  kindly  shelter  of  the  willows  and  lie  quiet 
until  night.  He  had  need  to  be  very  still.  He  crept 
forward  cautiously.  He  could  no  longer  be  sure  about 
the  chase.  He  was  careful  to  break  no  slender  twig 
to  blaze  his  trail  through  the  wilderness.  After  awhile, 
he  stopped  and  lay  down  flat  upon  the  ground,  looking 
up  at  the  blue  sky,  which  gleamed  away  above  the  plia- 
ble, red-skinned,  friendly  willows.  It  was  a  long,  long 
time  since  he  had  seen  so  much  blue  sky.  It  was 
not  very  cold  down  here.  It  was  sheltered  from  any 
breeze  from  the  north  and  west  by  the  high  bluff,  and 
the  sun  was  shining  warmly  upon  that  southern  wall, 
and  the  pleasant  warmth  radiated  therefrom  all  over 
the  protected  valley.  He  was  not  properly  clad  for 
a  Winter's  journey,  but  when  the  sun  went  down  and 
it  grew  really  cold,  he  could  keep  warm  by  keeping 
constantly  on  the  move.  It  would  be  time  for  him  to 
be  up  and  doing  then.  The  willows  were  so  thick  that 
they  grew  almost  like  slough  grass.  It  would  be  next 
to  impossible  to  find  him  unless  some  one  stumbled 
upon  him  purely  by  chance,  or  unless  a  posse  of  many 
men  thrashed  through  the  entire  bottom  with  system- 
atic and  stubborn  integrity;  and  that  would  take  time. 
It  was  very  probable  that  the  officers  would  surmise 
that  he  had  taken  to  the  willows,  but  they  could  not  be 
sure,  and  that  would  weaken  their  purpose.  They 
would  be  always  thinking  that  he  might  have  gone  in 
another  direction.  He  knew  that  his  chances  were  good 
if  he  kept  still. 

19  [  289  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Presently  he  heard  a  hail,  then  another,  and  another, 
and  he  knew  that  the  hunt  had  begun.  He  smiled  a 
little  bitterly.  It  was  he  —  Locke  Raynor  Crawford 
—  who  was  being  hunted  down  like  a  nigger.  He  could 
plainly  hear  men  thrashing  about.  Sound  carried 
far  here  in  the  valley  so  close  to  the  ground  and  the 
river.  He  was  a  little  sorry  that  he  had  had  to  forfeit 
the  jailer's  good  will.  He  must  have  been  furious  when 
he  discovered  how  cleverly  he  had  been  tricked.  Yes,  he 
was  sorry  but  the  sheriff  should  have  believed  him  when 
he  said  he  would  return  and  should  have  granted  him 
the  leave  of  absence  he  had  asked  for ;  then  all  this  trouble 
would  have  been  averted.  It  was  a  very  unnecessary 
trouble.  Of  course  he  would  come  back.  There  was 
no  other  way. 

Gradually,  the  sounds  of  the  hunt  died  away.  No 
one  had  come  so  far  west  as  he.  When  it  was  quite 
dark,  he  arose,  chilled  but  determined,  and  struck  out  for 
the  Big  Bend  Agency  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north- 
west. 


[290] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    PERFECT    FRIEND 

A  GLANCE  at  his  watch  by  the  light  of  the  flick- 
ering fire  showed  Hugh  Hunt  that  it  was  almost 
midnight.  The  fire  was  laid  upon  the  ground,  near 
the  centre  of  the  tipi,  and  the  enclosure  was  filled  with 
a  dense,  penetrating,  choking  smoke.  Around  it 
crouched  the  father,  mother,  and  sister  of  the  young 
man  lying  upon  the  rude  but  clean  pallet.  The  old 
man,  blanketed,  brooding-eyed,  silent,  gazed  moodily 
into  the  dancing  flames  as  he  huddled  closer  into  the 
radius  of  welcome  warmth.  Midnight  had  brought  a 
new  keenness  to  the  air  sweeping  around  and  through 
the  isolated  lodge.  The  mother  rocked  her  arms  and 
moaned  softly,  monotonously,  continuously.  Once 
when,  after  a  violent  paroxysm  of  coughing,  the  young 
man  lay  back  upon  his  couch  spent  and  almost  gone, 
she  glided  forward  and  broke  forth  into  a  wailing  death 
chant;  but  Hugh  Hunt  stayed  her  so  sharply,  so  per- 
emptorily, that  the  song  died  upon  her  lips  when  it  had 
scarcely  begun,  and  she  crept  back  to  her  watch  by  the 
fire,  contenting  herself  for  the  future  with  that  low, 
dreary,  monotonous  cry.  The  girl's  dark  eyes  stared 
straight  into  the  mysteries  that  hovered  around  the  dy- 

[291] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

ing  man's  bed,  and  no  one  except  only  the  Creator  of  us 
all  could  have  fathomed  the  thoughts  of  that  dark- 
skinned,  taciturn  —  always  taciturn  in  the  presence  of 
one  of  the  alien  and  arrogant  race  of  white  men  — 
aboriginal  maid.  She  had  been  often  to  the  mission 
school,  hard  and  cruel  as  the  Winter  had  been.  She 
had  heard  of  Wdkantanka  Who  had  sent  His  only  Son 
to  die  for  her  brother  and  all  Indians  whether  they  were 
good  or  bad;  but  her  brother  was  dying  after  all,  and 
perhaps  she  was  thinking  that  it  was  a  very  unnecessary 
thing  to  do,  though  a  truly  brave  and  admirable  one  — 
that  dying  upon  the  cross  —  because  it  could  not  keep 
any  one  from  dying;  and  after  death  an  Indian  was  all 
right,  anyway.  He  went  to  a  fair  and  full  hunting- 
ground,  and  life  was  made  very  easy  then  for  the  good 
hunter  and  the  brave  warrior.  For  surely  the  sorrow 
and  suffering,  the  sickness  and  the  hunger,  and  all  the 
ills  of  life  were  ample  expiation  paid  to  the  Great  Spirit 
for  the  gift  of  life,  as  well  as  for  its  abuses  and  crimes, 
for  which  the  Indian  fully  realizes  he  is  responsible. 
But  he  throws  the  ills  of  life  into  the  scales  as  a  com- 
pensation to  offset  the  sins,  so  that  the  balance,  he  be- 
lieves, wins  for  him  an  inexhaustible  hunting-ground. 

"  Our  Father,"  was  Hugh's  daily  prayer,  "  teach 
me  the  way  to  show  my  little  brothers  that  as  the  sins. 
of  the  flesh  corrode  the  body,  so  must  its  loathsome 
touch  carry  infection  to  the  indwelling  soul,  so  that 
sometime,  somewhere,  somehow,  it  must  be  healed  be- 
fore it  can  live  forever."  Sometimes  then,  his  prayer 
prayed,  he  would  ask,  "  It  is  so,  is  it  not,  our  Father? 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

A  sick  soul  must  either  be  healed  or  die  just  like  any 
other  part  of  us.  It  cannot  be  otherwise,  can  it? 
When  I  sin  can  my  soul,  which  lives  in  such  close  com- 
munion with  my  body,  dare  to  hope  to  escape  infec- 
tion ?  "  And  then  perhaps  he  would  say  to  his  own 
soul,  "  What  one  man  can  do  toward  making  igno- 
rance to  see  and  to  use  that  greatest  discovery  in  the 
science  of  the  soul  —  the  Crucified  Christ  —  that  will 
I  do." 

Hugh  Hunt  had  moved  the  couch  so  that  the  sick 
man's  head  reclined  near  the  opening  of  the  tipi. 
Thus  was  the  young  fellow  kept  from  choking  to  death 
prematurely,  as  he  must  have  done  had  he  been  com- 
pelled to  breathe  in  the  stifling  smoke  which  filled  the 
room.  Hugh  had  been  there  since  early  in  the  even- 
ing. He  had  brought  clean  blankets  and  pillows  from 
his  own  too  scanty  store.  Outside,  where  he  had 
thrown  them,  lay  a  heap  of  filthy,  germ-ridden  blan- 
kets. Cases  like  this  were  the  inception  of  that  dread 
disease  which  later  became  the  veritable  curse  of  the 
people  —  tuberculosis.  The  harsh  Winter  had  kept 
the  Indians  confined  even  more  than  was  usual.  A 
degenerating  reliance  upon  rations  which  were  sure  to 
be  doled  out  to  them  had  bred  habits  of  slothful  ease 
which  in  turn  had  bred  uncleannesses  which  in  their  turn 
became  the  culture  media  for  inoculation  and  the 
spread  of  millions  upon  millions  of  bacteria,  forerun- 
ners of  that  scourge  which  was  to  ravage  this  race  as 
probably  nothing  had  ever  done  before. 

Outside  it  was  very  dark,  while  a  dull,  heavy,  con- 
[  293  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

stant  roar,  not  unlike  the  boom  of  surf,  dominated  the 
night  with  its  aching  moan.  There  had  been  a  season 
of  melting  weather  and  the  ice  was  running  out;  but 
it  had  turned  cold  again,  bitterly  cold,  and  the  night 
wind  was  spitting  snow  from  the  northwest.  Occa- 
sionally, the  monotonous  boom  was  broken  by  a  loud 
cracking,  grinding  shriek,  as  some  monster  field  of  ice 
climbed  ruthlessly  and  tumultuously  upon  some  more 
slowly  moving  body,  followed  by  a  gurgling  snarl  as 
they  parted  company;  and  then  again  the  dull,  monot- 
onous, steady  sounding  of  the  great  flow.  Before 
dark,  it  had  been  a  wonderful  sight,  that  maelstrom  of 
heaving,  leaping,  roaring,  cracking,  grinding,  climb- 
ing, snarling,  rushing,  whirling  blocks  of  ice  that  were 
so  uncannily  like  live  things  of  supernatural  power; 
but  Hugh  had  not  lingered  long,  because  over  in  that 
poor  little  tip!  crouching  alone  on  the  bleak  plain, 
wind-swept  and  storm-beaten,  with  a  gleam  of  wavering 
light  showing  upon  the  darkening  and  chilly  air,  a  soul 
was  about  to  go  out  upon  the  Great  Unknown. 

Presently,  the  woman,  obeying  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible motion  of  her  husband's  hand  following  the 
greater  chill  of  the  air  which  had  impelled  him  to 
draw  closer  to  the  fire,  sidled  toward  the  entrance  where 
the  flaps  had  been  thrown  back  to  admit  the  purer  at- 
mosphere for  the  benefit  of  the  sick  man.  She  kept 
her  sharp,  beady  eyes  upon  the  Missionary  bending 
over  the  couch  as  she  did  so.  She  thought  he  was  so 
absorbed  that  he  would  not  see.  Softly,  guiltily,  she 
closed  the  entrance,  and,  with  a  little  inward  smile  of 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

triumph,  was  slipping  quietly  back  to  her  place  when 
she  was  arrested  by  the  stern  voice  of  the  Missionary, 
who  had  raised  his  head  quickly  when  he  became  imme- 
diately and  unpleasantly  conscious  of  the  closeness,  the 
stench,  and  the  choking  wood  smoke,  and  realized  that 
the  only  inlet  for  fresh  air  had  been  surreptitiously  cut 
off. 

"  Open  it  at  once,  I  say ! "  cried  Hugh,  in  Dakota. 
"  Would  you  rob  your  son  of  the  last  moments  of  his 
life  by  letting  him  suffocate  in  this  close  atmosphere? 
Open  it,  I  say !  Look !  The  boy  is  gasping  for 
breath!" 

The  woman  obeyed  sullenly.  Why  a  Missionary  of 
the  white  man's  God  should  be  ministering  here  at  the 
death  bed  of  a  pagan,  in  the  house  of  a  pagan,  and 
was  being  so  strangely  though  unwillingly  obeyed, 
while  Dakota  zvakan  men  were  so  conspicuously  ab- 
sent, perhaps  could  only  be  explained  in  this  way: 
He  had  been  good  to  the  young  man,  who  was  little  more 
than  a  boy,  and  the  boy  had  loved  him  because  of  it. 
Not  because  of  what  he  had  said  or  taught  —  much  of 
that  had  been  but  little  understood  —  but  because  he 
had  been  good  to  him.  Simply  that  —  he  had  been 
good  to  him,  and  the  Indian  heart  is  a  singularly  grate- 
ful one.  The  pagan  parents  of  this  dying  boy  could 
not  forget  that  Hugh  had  been  good  to  him. 

"  It  is  so  cold  and  he  is  so  weak,"  she  whimpered, 
even  while  she  obeyed  the  mandate.  "  It  will  kill  him." 

Again  Hugh  bent  over  the  boy.  It  was  past  mid- 
night now  and  he  was  very  tired.  It  had  been  a  harsh,, 

[295] 


THE         SPIRIT,        TRAIL 

a  cruel  Winter.  There  had  been  much  sickness  and 
death,  many  long  journeys,  much  exposure,  many  dis- 
couragements. He  was  gaunt  from  lack  of  sleep,  and 
the  consuming  fire  of  his  soul  burned  through  his  eyes 
more  feverishly  than  ever.  The  hand  which  kept  gently 
brushing  the  black  straggling  hair  back  from  the  boy's 
forehead  was  strangely  white  and  as  thin  as  the  boy's 
own  disease-wasted  one.  But  although  an  inward  fire 
seemed  ever  to  be  consuming  the  Missionary,  he  never 
seemed  to  burn  out.  To-night,  though  he  was  deadly 
tired,  his  touch  was  as  soothing,  his  voice  as  comfort- 
ing, his  presence  as  much  a  benediction,  as  if  he  had  but 
just  come  to  the  stricken  household  fresh  from  rest  and 
sleep. 

"  The  ice  is  going  out." 

It  was  the  boy  who  spoke.  Hugh  bent  his  head 
lower  to  catch  the  broken  whisper. 

"  Yes,  the  ice  is  going  out,"  he  said,  gently.  He 
had  thought  the  boy  was  in  a  stupor  and  would  not 
rally  again. 

"  It  makes  a  big  noise,"  came  flutteringly  from  the 
boy's  lips. 

"  It  will  run  out  soon  and  then  it  will  not  sound  so 
loud,"  said  Hugh,  and  thought  sadly  of  the  young  life 
which  would  so  soon  be  run  out,  too,  and  of  the  awful 
quiet  the  fleeting  soul  would  leave  behind  it. 

"  It  must  have  gorged  somewhere." 

"  I  think  not,  little  brother.     Why?  " 

What  was  it  the  boy  was  saying?  Still  lower  Hugh 
bent  to  listen.  At  first  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand. 

[296] 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

The   voice   was   so   faint   and   broken  —  the   words    so 
strange  and  removed.     But  at  last,  ah,  yes,  he  knew  now. 

"  I   lie  mysteriously  across  the  lake, 
I  lie  mysteriously  across   the  lake, 
Decoying  some  souls,  let  me  eat  him  alive, 
I   lie  mysteriously  across  the  lake, 
Let  me  eat  him  alive." 

Haltingly  but  faithfully,  the  weird  words  spun  them- 
selves out  from  the  failing  consciousness  of  the  dying 
Indian,  and  patterned  themselves  clearly  to  the  under- 
standing of  the  Missionary.  They  were  the  words  of 
an  old  chant  still  used  sometimes  in  the  medicine  dances 
of  the  Dakotas  of  the  Missouri,  though  it  originated 
years  ago  among  the  Santees  in  Minnesota,  who  believed 
that  one  of  the  Onkteri  gods  dwelt  under  the  Falls  of 
Saint  Anthony.  The  tradition  ran  that  this  god,  the 
male  Onkteri,  who  was  supposed  to  animate  the  water 
and  the  land  beneath  it,  as  the  female  Onkteri  animated 
the  earth,  passed  down  the  channel  of  the  river  after  it 
had  been  finally  relieved  from  an  immense  ice  gorge,  de- 
vouring the  souls  of  all  who  lost  their  lives  during  the 
flood  which  followed  the  clearing  of  the  channel.  Not 
only  did  he  devour  the  souls  of  the  unfortunate  victims 
but  he  had  caused  the  ice  to  gorge  in  the  first  place  so 
that  he  might  feed.  The  old  order  of  Dakotas  be- 
lieved that  the  Onkteri  lived  on  human  souls. 

Poor  young  man.  What  a  child  he  had  been  when 
he  had  been  drilled  and  re-drilled  until  he  was  letter 
perfect  in  the  strange  beliefs  and  ceremonies  of  the 
Indian  people!  So  thoroughly  imbued  with  their  mel- 

[297] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

ancholy  mysticism  had  he  been  from  his  childhood  up 
that  now  dying  with  a  Christian  minister  holding  his 
hands  and  bearing  a  lamp  to  lighten  the  way  of  the 
lonely  journey,  he  needs  must  babble  yet  to  the  stern 
music  of  a  crashing  ice-laden  channel  the  mournful 
chants  of  ignorant  superstition  and  lying  tradition. 
So  innately  reticent  upon  religious  subjects  is  the  In- 
dian nature,  that  not  until  now  did  Hugh  Hunt  realize 
the  firm  hold  the  faith  of  their  fathers  still  had  upon 
the  younger  generation.  It  was  food  for  much 
thought,  and  it  bore  fruit  in  his  after  ministry  when  he 
caused  the  children,  with  their  sunny  faith  and  loyal 
hearts,  to  open  the  doors  of  those  dark  dungeons  of 
superstition,  centuries  old,  where  their  fathers  had  been 
confined  all  their  lives  and  their  fathers  before  them. 

Harder  blew  the  wind.  Thicker  fell  the  snow.  It 
swirled  through  the  opening  and  drifted  upon  the 
couch.  Hugh  brushed  it  away  but  he  did  not  draw  the 
flaps.  It  grew  very  late  and  very  cold.  The  fire  was 
dying  down.  No  one  seemed  to  think  about  it  any 
more.  The  sick  man's  voice  had  failed  him  after  giving 
utterance  to  the  weird  chant  which  had  been  put  into 
his  mind  by  the  boom  of  the  grinding  ice  out  yonder. 
The  tick,  tick  of  Hugh's  watch  sounded  startlingly  loud 
in  the  stillness  of  that  ghostly  hour  in  the  lonely  In- 
dian tipi  out  upon  the  wind-swept  prairie. 

Suddenly,  a  figure  appeared  at  the  dimly  lighted  en- 
trance. There  had  been  no  sound  of  the  man's  ap- 
proach. He  had  come  against  the  wind  and  the  press 
of  his  footsteps  had  been  carried  away  and  lost  in  the 

[298] 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

swish  of  the  snow  and  in  the  howl  of  the  northwest 
wind.  The  shivering  group  around  the  dying  fire 
made  no  movement  whatsoever,  either  of  welcome  or  of 
resentment;  only  in  the  squaw  mother's  eyes  there  was 
a  snapping  light,  as  if  she  might  have  resented  the  in- 
trusion had  it  not  been  for  the  other  white  man  who 
had  been  good  to  her  son.  The  father  appeared  abso- 
lutely unconscious  of  the  unexpected  visitation  and  the 
sister  never  once  looked  up,  although  every  fibre  of  her 
being  knew  that  one  of  the  arrogant  race  blocked  her 
father's  doorway.  Hugh  Hunt,  however,  sprang  to  his 
feet  with  a  great  gladness  in  his  face.  He  seized  the 
newcomer's  hands  and  drew  him  within  the  smoke- 
begrimed  but  welcome  shelter. 

"  Locke  Raynor,  my  dear  fellow ! "  he  cried,  softly, 
not  even  in  his  joy  unmindful  of  the  soul  that  was 
passing  or  of  the  sadness  of  the  little  group  crouching 
near.  "  I  knew  you  would  establish  your  innocence ! 
It  was  only  a  question  of  time.  But  I  never  hoped  for 
your  release  so  soon.  Tell  me,  how  did  it  happen?  I 
am  so  glad !  So  glad !  " 

Locke  was  haggard  and  soiled  and  worn.  He  had 
walked  most  of  the  way.  He  had  not  dared  make  open 
requisition  for  stage  transportation.  Once  he  had 
been  able  to  secure  a  mangy  range  horse  from  a  man 
whose  own  ways  of  life  were  so  questionable  that  he 
made  a  point  of  never  asking  questions.  He  had  con- 
sidered himself  extremely  fortunate,  but  before  the  day 
was  out,  he  had  been  compelled  to  leave  the  worn-out 
carcass  behind  for  the  wolves.  The  animal  was  lit- 

[299] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

tie  worth  the  heavy  gold  ring  exchanged  for  it;  but 
it  had  given  Locke  a  few  hours  of  much  needed  rest 
without  losing  time,  and  that  was  something.  He  was 
stiff  and  lame  with  fatigue  and  exposure  but  he  could 
smile  even  yet,  and  he  did  smile,  thinking  of  the  im- 
mensity of  the  surprise  he  was  about  to  spring  upon  his 
friend  of  happier  days. 

"  I  broke  jail,"  he  said,  laconically,  and  Hugh,  look- 
ing upon  him  in  his  dishevelled  condition,  knew  that  he 
spoke  the  truth;  and  with  his  wonderful  sympathy  of 
understanding  which  was  so  quietly  comprehending  as 
to  be  almost  a  sixth  sense,  he  also  knew  why  he  had  done 
it.  His  face  became  very  grave. 

"  It  is  madness,"  he  said,  "  sheer  madness.  Such 
reckless  procedure  must  inevitably  work  to  your  com- 
plete undoing.  You  cannot  hope  to  escape  recapture. 
You  are  known  all  over  the  Reservation.  Your  trial 
was  far  too  sensational  to  permit  of  your  walking 
abroad  with  impunity,  and  your  breaking  jail  brands 
you  indubitably  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  as  guilty. 
You  must  go  back  at  once." 

"  You  are  good  to  say  '  in  the  minds  of  the  people,' ' 
said  Locke,  a  hard  glitter  in  his  eyes.     "  I  am  grateful 
to  you  for  not  so  branding  me  yourself.     I  thank  you 
for  sparing  my  feelings  in  so  gentlemanly  a  manner." 

"  I  have  always  believed  in  your  innocence.  You 
must  not  forget  that  I  was  with  you  when  you  raided 
the  Dorseys,"  said  Hugh,  simply. 

"  Forgive  me,"  cried  Locke,  impulsively,  "  my  trou- 
bles have  soured  me,  that  is  all.  I  have  never  really 

[300] 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

doubted  you.  If  I  had,  I  never  would  have  been  here. 
You  believe  me,  don't  you?  You  are  the  one  man  in 
all  the  world  whom  I  can  trust  to  help  me.  I  have  come 
straight  to  you  to  ask  that  help.  You  were  not  at  the 
mission  house.  I  traced  you  to  this  abandoned  place 
by  intuition,  I  think.  I  saw  the  light  and  I  knew  your 
peculiar  predilection  for  ailing  Injuns." 

"  But  you  are  so  all  wrong,"  said  Hugh,  thought- 
fully. "  In  breaking  j  ail,  you  have  broken  the  law. 
How  then  can  you  hope  to  prosper  ?  " 

"  You  would  hang  me  then,  an  innocent  man,  be- 
cause it  is  wrong  to  break  jail? "  demanded  Locke, 
bitterly. 

"  No,  no !  But  you  are  to  have  a  new  trial  and  you 
know  that  you  will  be  acquitted  then.  Do  you  doubt 
that  the  right  always  prevails  in  the  end  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  am  going  back  to  jail  when  I  have  found 
Katharine,"  said  Locke,  meeting  the  issue  squarely. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  might  have  known  that  you 
would.  It  makes  things  easier.  Now  whatever  we  de- 
cide to  do,  we  can  do  with  a  clear  conscience  because  of 
the  righteousness  of  our  intentions.  You  see,  being  a 
preacher,  I  have  to  preach,"  he  deprecated,  with  an 
illuminating  smile  that  made  his  worn  face  beautiful. 

"  If  I  had  not  said  that  I  was  going  back,"  said 
Locke,  curiously,  "  would  you  have  given  me  up  ?  " 

Hugh  Hunt  shook  his  head,  still  smiling. 

"  How  then  would  you  have  explained  it  if  people 
found  out  that  you  had  harbored  a  notorious  law- 
breaker? What  an  example  for  a  preacher  to  set! " 

[301] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Hugh,  a  questioning,  wistful 
look  taking  the  place  of  the  dazzling  smile.  "  If  any 
transgressed  because  of  my  act,  I  should  probably  have 
had  to  answer  for  him  sometime  —  to  my  Maker.  But 
you  are  my  friend.  I  could  not  give  up  my  friend. 
It  would  take  more  strength  than  I  have  to  do  that." 

Locke's  eyes  smarted  suddenly,  and  a  lump  came  into 
his  throat.  Here  was  the  perfect  friend.  Hugh  Hunt 
had  said  that  it  took  a  sublimer  heroism  than  was  his  to 
sacrifice  a  friend  for  the  greater  good.  Was  there  any 
greater  good  in  all  the  world  than  a  perfect  friend,  and 
might  not  man's  ultimate  salvation  be  when  each  was  a 
perfect  friend? 

"  Tell  me  what  to  do  now,"  he  said,  brusquely,  to 
hide  his  emotion.  "  I  can't  hang  around  the  Agency. 
Can  you  smuggle  me  into  your  room  to-night?  " 

"  To  recur  to  the  .subject  of  the  risk,"  replied  Hugh, 
gravely,  "  everything  is  being  done  to  find  Miss  Men- 
denhall  that  can  possibly  be  done.  What  more  can  you 
—  a  man  who  must  hide  by  day  and  skulk  by  night  — 
forgive  me  —  what  more,  I  say,  can  a  man  in  your  po- 
sition do  than  is  being  done?  You  are  only  running 
your  head  into  a  noose.  If  we  could  not  do  what  you 
want  to  do,  I  should  say,  '  Go,  and  God  speed  you,'  but 
everything  is  being  done  and  more,  a  thousand  times 
more,  than  you  could  possibly  hope  to  do.  Listen. 
For  Katharine  Mendenhall's  sake  do  not  bring  this 
added  evidence  of  guilt  down  upon  your  head.  No 
one  would  believe  you  honest  in  your  motives  —  no  one 
at  least  but  a  poor  preacher  —  you  know  that  as  well  as 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

I  do.  I  say  again,  for  Katharine's  sake  do  not  persist 
in  this  wild  and  dangerous  course." 

Locke  flushed  but  he  met  his  friend's  look  steadily. 

"  That  is  why  I  am  here,"  he  said,  "  for  Katharine's 
sake.  Do  not  waste  time  by  trying  to  persuade  me  to 
go  back.  I  shall  not  go  back  and  I  shall  not  be  taken 
back  until  I  have  found  Katharine.  That  is  enough,  I 
think." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugh,  quietly,  "  that  is  enough.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  first?  " 

"  Come  with  me  out  of  this  smoke-cursed  hell  hole  to 
your  room  or  somewhere  where  we  can  talk  over  plans 
and  where  you  can  tell  me  all  about  —  how  it  hap- 
pened. Remember  I  have  only  a  garbled  account  of 
everything  and  I  want  the  whole  truth,  Hugh,  the  whole 
truth  and  the  straight  truth.  I  knew  that  she  had  not 
yet  been  found.  I  gathered  that  on  the  way  up." 

"  Yes,  Locke,  all  in  good  time,  but  not  just  yet," 
said  Hugh,  gently.  "  You  can  see  why.  This  poor 
boy  is  dying." 

He  slipped  back  to  his  old  place  at  the  bedside  and 
he  could  not  but  be  struck  by  the  awful  change  those 
few  moments  of  his  absence  had  wrought  upon  the 
wasted  countenance. 

"He  will  die  anyway,  won't  he?"  cried  Locke,  im- 
patiently. "  For  God's  sake,  Hugh  Hunt,  if  you  are 
my  friend,  don't  keep  me  waiting  any  longer !  "  Then 
he  continued,  impelled  by  a  something  in  the  Mission- 
ary's attitude  that  was  as  irrevocable  as  death  itself: 
**  Are  n't  you  coming  ?  Are  you  really  going  to  put 

[  303  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

a  dirty  dog  of  an  Injun  who  has  n't  a  single  claim  upon 
you  in  the  whole  wide  world  before  one  of  your  own 
race  ?  Why,  Hugh,  I  'm  cold  and  hungry  and  tired  — 
God,  how  tired  I  am  —  and  in  trouble  and  yet  you  smile 
and  wait  for  a  dog  to  die ! " 

He  was  tired  and  cold  and  hungry  and  sore  of  heart 
or  he  would  not  have  been  so  bitter. 

"  No  claim?  "  said  Hugh,  softly.  "  Why,  he  is  my 
friend.  I  have  visited  with  him  and  broken  bread  with 
him  in  his  own  home,  and  sometimes  he  has  visited  me  in 
mine.  He  had  ever  a  good  word  for  me.  He  is  my 
friend.  And  besides,  Locke,  I  can  tell  you  everything 
there  is  to  tell  right  here.  We  need  not  wait.  These 
people  cannot  understand  one  word  of  English.  Wait 
a  little  for  your  food  and  fire  and  rest,  Locke.  It  is 
very  hard  to  die  alone,  even  for  an  Indian  who  is  too 
proud  to  acknowledge  it.  He  trusts  me  —  and  he  likes 
me,  too,  I  think,  and  if  he  should  be  looking  for  me  and 
I  was  not  here,  I  could  not  bear  it.  Wait  a  little,  won't 
you,  and  then  everything  I  have,  my  time  and  all  my 
worldly  goods,  are  yours." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Locke,  ashamed  but  still  a  little 
hurt.  This  being  a  perfect  friend  to  a  low-down  Injun 
was  rather  belittling  to  himself.  "  I  suppose  you  'd 
never  forgive  me  if  I  hinted  to  you  to  hasten  the  dis- 
solution as  much  as  possible,  so  I  won't  say  it.  But  I 
do  beg  you  with  all  my  heart  to  tell  me  about  Katha- 
rine." 

There  was  little  to  tell  beside  what  the  sheriff  had 
detailed  already  to  Locke  in  the  jail.  Absolutely  no 

[304] 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

trace  had  been  discovered  as  yet.  One  thing,  however, 
which  Locke  had  not  heard  before  set  him  to  thinking 
deeply.  On  the  same  day  that  Katharine  was  lost  — 
"  And  by  the  way,"  Hugh  softly  interpolated,  "  this  is 
the  young  man  she  came  to  see  that  day,"  and  "  I  '11 
warrant  you  these  people  know  more  than  they  have 
told,"  responded  Locke,  grimly, —  Yellow  Owl,  the 
great  necromancer  of  the  Little  Yanktons,  disappeared 
with  a  band  of  young  men,  and  no  one,  neither  Black 
Tomahawk  nor  any  of  the  other  chiefs  nor  any  of  their 
people,  knew  whither  he  had  gone.  Many  thought  that 
he  had  joined  the  hostiles  in  the  Powder  River  country. 
Others  were  of  the  opinion  that  he  had  gone  into  the 
wilderness  to  fast  and  to  hold  close  communion  with  his 
patron  spirits  and  to  dream  dreams  of  yet  more  bold- 
ness and  sacredness  to  tradition  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed  before,  and  that  when  he  came  back,  it  would 
be  to  hurl  new  invectives  against  the  white  man's  teaching 
and  the  white  man's  creed,  claiming  that  he  had  been 
inspired  and  commanded  by  his  gods  to  stamp  out  of 
the  Indian  country,  once  and  for  all,  the  accursed  en- 
croachments of  the  white  race  —  and  that  the  time  was 
at  hand  when  this  thing  should  be  done.  Yellow  Owl's 
intense  hatred  of  all  pale-faces  was  well  known.  It  was 
also  generally  believed  that  he  would  take  a  peculiar 
delight  in  furthering  real  war  between  the  races.  That 
he  was  bitterly  disappointed  when  all  hostile  demonstra- 
tion ceased  on  the  part  of  his  nation  when  the  War 
Department  closed  the  gates  of  the  Black  Hills  to  settle- 
ment, no  one  who  knew  him  doubted.  Perhaps  he 
20  £  305  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

dreamed  of  being  a  second  Little  Crow  and  of  precipitat- 
ing upon  the  Missouri  River  region  an  outbreak  like 
to  that  of  the  Minnesota,  of  which  Little  Crow  had  been 
the  inspiration.  But  he  would  be  a  greater  than 
Tayoatidoota,  the  last  of  the  Little  Crow  dynasty,  for 
when  he  took  the  warpath  to  cleanse  his  land  of  the 
contaminating  presence  of  the  alien  race,  doubtless  he 
told  himself  that  he  should  not  fail.  There  were  also 
those  who  connected  Yellow  Owl's  quiet,  unforewarned 
slipping  away  with  the  sudden  disappearance  of  the 
Agent's  daughter,  but  these  were  not  many,  and,  almost 
to  a  man,  were  Indians.  The  whites,  like  Stephen 
Oliver,  believed  that  the  Yanktonais  were  too  loyal  to 
Tahu  Tanka  to  sanction  in  the  least  any  harm  to  his 
daughter,  and  as  to  her  falling  into  the  hands  of 
hostiles,  why,  strictly  speaking  there  were  not  any 
hostiles  any  more.  They  were  practically  all  friendlies 
since  the  Red  Cloud  Treaty,  and  the  later  evacuation 
of  the  Black  Hills.  Those  who  were  still  on  the  ragged 
edge  kept  well  to  the  buffalo  lands  because  they  were 
afraid  to  hang  around  civilization,  and  scorned  it,  be- 
sides. Hugh  Hunt  was  afraid,  however,  and  this  fear 
was  at  once  communicated  to  Locke.  The  Missionary 
knew  Indian  nature  perhaps  better  than  any  other  white 
man  of  his  day,  and  he  knew  Yellow  Owl's  nature 
especially  because  it  was  against  that  extraordinary,  un- 
principled, vicious,  mighty  priesthood  of  which  Yellow 
Owl  was  a  supreme  evil  spirit  that  the  White  Robe  was 
so  gallantly  fighting.  None  knew  better  than  these 
Dakota  medicine  men  what  Christianity  meant  to  their 

[306] 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

calling-.  None  would  carry  the  war  against  it  to  such 
desperate  extremes  as  they.  Hugh  Hunt  knew  that 
Yellow  Owl  hated  Major  Mendenhall  and  his  family  and 
he  strongly  suspected  the  reason.  He  had  not  been 
there  to  see  the  medicine  man's  look  of  hate  when  Katha- 
rine Mendenhall  knelt  by  the  bedside  of  White  Flower, 
but  he  believed  that  Yellow  Owl  was  clever  enough  to 
understand  the  ruse  which  had  been  worked  upon  him. 
If  he  knew,  he  would  never  forgive  it  —  and  did  he  not 
know  ? 

"  I  will  get  Running  Bird  to  help  us,"  said  Hugh,  at 
last,  and  with  decision.  "  We  must  pit  cunning  against 
cunning.  You  and  I  could  do  nothing  alone.  We  are 
too  clumsy  in  our  interpretation  of  Indian  methods  — 
and  of  course  the  Agent  is  out  of  the  question  for  leader- 
ship. He  is  simply  frantic." 

"  Trot  out  your  Running  Bird  at  once  then,"  said 
Locke.  "  Is  he  the  same  '  Storm-Fiend '  chap  who  gave 
us  the  tent  and  who  was  Black  Tomahawk's  interpreter 
at  the  trial?  This  expedition  starts  without  any  more 
delay." 

"  I  think  —  I  am  afraid  it  will  take  some  diplomacy 
on  our  part  to  enlist  his  aid,"  said  Hugh,  hesitatingly. 
**  He  has  not  been  quite  the  same  since  Custer  invaded 
the  Black  Hills  last  year.  I  went  out  to  tell  him  of 
General  Sheridan's  faithful  expulsion  of  all  would-be 
gold  hunters  but  he  still  seemed  different.  I  think  he 
resents  that  trespass  very  bitterly,  and  especially  our 
insolent  presumption  in  daring  to  seek  and  to  find  their 
gold.  I  think  he  does  not  quite  believe  in  us  yet,  arid 

[307] 


CTHE      SPIRIT      TRAIL 

I  sometimes  think  there  is  another  secret  influence  work- 
ing against  us,  too,  but  I  will  do  what  I  can.  I  still 
have  faith  that  Running  Bird  will  listen  to  me.  I  have 
not  seen  him  since  the  trial.  He  disappeared  then  and 
I  am  not  even  sure  that  he  has  returned  to  the  Reser- 
vation." 

"  It  looks  as  if  he  were  still  our  friend,"  said  Locke, 
hopefully,  "  or  he  would  not  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
volunteer  his  services  at  the  trial." 

"  We  will  hope  so,"  replied  Hugh,  thoughtfully. 
"  If  Sheridan  had  not  kept  faith,  I  should  have  lost 
Running  Bird  and  many,  many  more  fine  young  men. 
I  think  he  will  never  quite  forget  our  treachery  at  Ash 
Hollow,  and  I  shudder  to  think  what  will  happen  if  ever 
Sheridan's  order  is  withdrawn." 

It  was  in  that  darkness  which  is  so  dark  just  before 
the  dawn  that  the  young  Indian  passed  away.  He  was 
seized  with  a  violent  coughing  spell  and  when  the 
paroxysm  ended,  he  was  dead.  He  died  in  Hugh's  arms. 
The  latter  had  raised  him  when  he  saw  that  this  was  to  be 
the  end ;  and  though  he  died  in  the  faith  of  his  fathers, 
the  boy's  eyes  smiled  into  Hugh's  before  he  went,  and 
that  smile  paid  a  hundred-fold  for  the  long  weary  night 
of  watching  and  waiting.  A  singularly  grateful  heart 
has  an  Indian. 

"  Now  you  are  ready  to  come?  "  asked  Locke,  pre- 
paring to  leave  the  stricken  place  at  once;  for  already 
the  desolate  death  chant  was  raised  in  that  tipi,  and  it 
was  a  very  dreary  habitation  indeed. 

"  In  a  moment,"  replied  Hugh,  absently. 
[308] 


THE      PERFECT      FRIEND 

He  spoke  a  few  earnest  words  in  the  Dakota  language 
to  each  member  of  the  family.  Sometimes,  they  seemed 
to  expostulate,  but  in  the  main  they  were  acquiescent* 
and  then  the  two  white  men  stepped  outside  into  the  cold 
crisp  dawn.  It  could  scarcely  be  called  dawn,  however. 
There  was  merely  a  faint  suggestion  of  pale  light 
showing  above  the  Eastern  horizon.  The  wind  had 
died. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  waiting  for  now  ?  "  cried 
Locke,  impatiently. 

"  I  must  burn  these  blankets,"  said  Hugh,  putting  a 
match,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  heap  of  unclean  bedding  that 
he  had  tossed  out  in  the  night.  "  They  did  not  like  the 
idea  very  well.  The  boy's  effects  were  all  to  be  given 
away.  I  finally  persuaded  them  to  let  me  do  it.  It  may 
be  I  am  wrong,  but  I  believe  that  consumption  is  in- 
fectious ;  and  oh,  Raynor,  if  it  is,  don't  you  see  the 
awf  ulness  of  what  is  coming  to  my  people  unless  we  can 
make  them  see  what  it  means  to  be  clean  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  visionary,  Hugh,  an  addle-pated  vision- 
ary," said  Locke,  bluntly,  unimpressed  by  his  friend's 
fervent  appeal.  "  I  'm  not  denying  that  you  are  a 
lovable  one,  but  a  visionary  you  are  —  so  far  ahead  of 
your  time  that  if  you  aren't  careful,  you  will  be  ac- 
counted a  harmless  lunatic  and  retired.  Take  my  advice, 
old  man,  and  don't  waste  so  much  valuable  time  on 
dirty,  stupid,  unappreciative  Injuns  who  are  really  bet- 
ter off  without  your  ministrations.  What 's  the  use  of 
making  them  discontented  with  their  lot?  There  are 
plenty  of  us,  Hugh,  who  need  your  help  and  I  think  we 

[309] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

are  a  little  more  able  to  appreciate  a  man  like  you, 
too." 

Hugh  Hunt  only  smiled. 

When  the  flames  had  died  away  and  only  a  heap  of 
ashes  remained  of  what,  but  for  one  man  who  was  so 
far  ahead  of  his  time  that  he  had  been  called  a  harmless 
and  helpless  visionary,  might  have  scattered  the  germs 
of  a  deadly  disease  —  already  too  inevitably  stamped 
upon  this  race  —  to  almost  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
Reservation, —  for  the  Indian  is  an  inveterate  traveller, 
—  the  two  men  walked  quickly  away  to  Hugh's  room  in 
the  mission  house.  They  must  be  safely  within  before 
any  one  at  the  Agency  was  stirring. 

"  Here  are  bread  and  beans,"  said  Hugh,  presently, 
returning  from  an  adjoining  room  with  those  articles 
in  his  hands,  "  and  here  is  coffee.  Boil  it  over  the  alco- 
hol lamp.  Then  wash  up  a  little,  if  you  like,  and  go  to 
bed.  Be  sure  to  lock  the  door  after  I  am  gone.  I  will 
give  three  short  raps  when  I  come  back.  Do  not  open 
to  any  other  knock ;  and  do  not  wonder  if  you  hear  any 
one  moving  about  in  the  next  room.  I  have  much  uncere- 
monious company  from  among  my  people  at  all  times 
of  the  day  or  night.  They  will  not  try  to  enter  this 
room.  They  will  wait  out  there.  Good-bye  for  a  little, 
while.  I  hope  that  I  can  find  Running  Bird." 


[310] 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

IT  was  nearing  the  middle  of  October.  Running  Bird 
and  his  band,  together  with  Hugh  Hunt  and  Locke 
Raynor,  whom  the  Indians  now  called  Man-who- 
wouldn't-stay-in-jail,  were  encamped  within  a  few  days' 
journey  of  the  Black  Hills  on  their  return  from  their 
Summer's  sojourn  in  the  Powder  River  country.  They 
had  gone  into  camp  early.  Now  that  they  were  well  on 
their  homeward  way,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  so  much 
haste  as  there  had  been.  If  the  Fall  should  continue 
open,  there  was  plenty  of  time  in  which  to  reach  the 
Agency  before  Winter  once  more  locked  the  Great 
Reservation  close  within  its  icy  and  lingering  grasp. 
The  white  men  especially  did  not  wish  to  go  in  for  the 
Winter  until  they  should  be  compelled  to  do  so  by  the 
growing  inclemency  of  the  weather.  Their  quest  into 
the  Powder  River  country  had  proved  an  unsuccessful 
one;  but  there  remained  the  chance  of  stumbling  upon 
some  definite  clue  even  upon  the  homeward  way.  Hence 
the  efforts  of  Locke  and  the  Missionary  were  ever  bent 
upon  contriving  to  make  the  forward  movement  of  the 
camp  as  dilatory  as  possible.  Running  Bird  was  ac- 
quiescent now  that  the  camp  was  finally  and  definitely 

[311] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

upon  its  return  trip.  He  had  insisted  upon  the  move. 
There  were  a  number  of  women  and  little  children  in 
the  party,  and  travelling  under  such  circumstances  after 
Winter  set  in  was  not  to  be  considered  for  a  moment. 
Now,  however,  he  saw  goal;  and  the  Indian  is  the  one 
native  American  who  is  not  constitutionally  in  a  hurry. 

Loath  as  the  two  white  men  were  to  give  up  the  search 
for  several  long  months,  they  realized  the  utter  futility 
of  any  effort  on  their  part  to  continue  it  without  the 
aid  and  protection  of  Running  Bird  and  his  people. 
The  country  was  full  of  roving  bands  of  hostile  Tetons 
who  would  have  not  the  slightest  compunction  in  killing 
a  white  man  on  sight  if  they  met  him  alone.  Moreover, 
their  knowledge  of  how  to  get  about  in  this  vast  and 
trackless  country  in  the  dead  of  Winter  was  wholly  in- 
adequate to  the  terrible  demands  which  would  be  made 
upon  it.  Even  grant  that  by  some  miraculous  inter- 
vention of  Providence  they  were  fortunate  enough  to 
escape  all  the  perils  of  hostiles,  of  storm,  and  of  famine, 
and  to  strike  the  trail  so  desperately  longed  for,  by 
what  persuasion  could  they  induce  Katharine's  captors 
to  relinquish  her,  if  it  was  revenge  or  worse  which  they 
were  determined  to  wreak  upon  her  fair  and  innocent 
womanhood  ?  They  would  only  be  shot  down  like  dogs. 
That  would  not  matter,  of  course,  if  it  might  only  help 
Katharine,  but  it  would  leave  her  only  the  more  defence- 
less. It  was  of  no  use  to  plan  any  other  way.  With- 
out Running  Bird,  they  were  as  helpless  as  the  Babes  in 
the  Wood.  There  was  always  that  haunting  thought 
besides  that  maybe  she  had  not  been  taken  away  by  the 

[312] 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

Indians  after  all.  If  she  had  not,  perhaps  even  now  the 
Agent  or  some  one  of  the  relief  parties  who  were  prose- 
cuting the  search  at  home  had  found  her  long  ago.  It 
was  too  good  to  be  true,  of  course,  but  nevertheless  the 
thought  was  there,  and  it  helped  to  make  the  idea  of 
leaving  the  field  bearable.  Running  Bird  had  promised 
faithfully  to  come  out  with  them  again  in  the  Spring  if 
she  were  still  missing.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do 
but  to  go  back  with  him,  but  God  alone  knew  how  hard 
it  was. 

Running  Bird  had  been  faithful.  No  one  could  deny- 
that.  In  spite  of  his  bitter  arraignment  of  white  men's 
motives,  he  had  been  faithful.  Hugh  was  thinking 
about  that  arraignment  and  still  suffering  on  account 
of  it  as  he  watched  the  evening  camp-fires  being  builded, 
diffusing  a  pleasant  warmth  into  the  clear,  crisp  air 
which  already  felt  the  touch  of  coming  Winter.  He 
had  gone  to  Running  Bird  the  very  day  after  the  ice 
flow  ran  out  and  this  is  what  Running  Bird  said  to  him : 

"  It  is  always  the  Indian  who  must  give,  give,  give. 
Some  day  he  will  be  tired  of  giving.  You  white  men 
never  give  much.  A  few  baubles  which  your  women 
scorn  and  mock  ours  for  liking.  A  little  whiskey  to 
make  us  mad  so  we  will  spend  our  money  for  more  and 
thus  you  get  back  the  paltry  sum  you  pay  us  for  our 
birthright.  It  is  not  much  to  give.  But  the  poor 
Indian  must  give  everything  he  has.  He  must  give  all 
the  time.  We  have  listened  long  for  you  to  say  it  is 
enough.  But  you  will  not  say  it  until  you  have  every- 
thing. The  Indian  is  not  a  fool.  Some  day,  he  will 

[313] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

say  it  is  enough.  The  buffalo  runs  and  runs  until  he 
can  run  no  longer  and  then  he  turns  and  charges  his 
enemy.  It  is  then  the  chase  gets  very  exciting,  and 
it  is  well  for  the  hunter  to  have  plenty  of  ammunition 
and  a  fast  horse.  The  Slender  Ash  is  here  to  ask  again. 
He  asks  me  to  go  with  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
He  asks  me  to  help  him  find  the  child  of  Big  Neck.  He 
asks  me  never  to  stop  until  she  is  found.  My  brother 
is  not  a  fool.  He  can  very  easily  see  that  we  might  have 
to  creep  along  the  nether  sands  of  the  river  all  the  way 
to  the  big  water  if  we  do  not  stop  until  she  is  found. 
I  think  it  is  much  to  ask." 

Hugh  had  gone  back  to  the  little  locked  room  in 
the  mission  house  rebuffed,  discouraged,  heart-sick. 
Running  Bird  had  stolidly  refused  to  say  anything 
further  upon  the  subject.  He  smiled  a  little  now, 
remembering  how  great  was  his  astonishment  when, 
awaking  early  the  next  morning  from  a  night  of 
troubled  sleep,  he  found  a  small  city  of  tipis  clus- 
tering cozily  and  sociably  in  and  about  his  door  yard. 
They  had  not  been  there  at  bed  time.  At  daylight, 
they  were  there.  Truly,  it  must  have  been  a  silent  com- 
pany, and  a  skilled,  thus  so  deftly  and  so  quietly  to 
erect  a  city  over-night.  A  few  years  ago,  he  would  have 
found  the  ghostly  proximity  of  these  strange  neighbors 
decidedly  startling;  that  morning,  he  only  smiled  and 
went  about  his  breakfast  preparations  light-heartedly, 
for  his  intuition  had  told  him  who  it  was  that  had  come. 

Later  in  the  day,  he  received  a  formal  call  from  Run- 
ning Bird,  who  informed  him  that  some  time  ago  he 

[314] 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

had  secured  permission  to  take  his  entire  band  and  go 
into  the  buffalo  country  to  hunt  during  the  Summer. 
At  first,  they  had  not  planned  on  making  the  start 
for  two  or  three  weeks  yet;  but  they  had  changed 
their  minds.  They  were  now  on  their  way.  If  Slen- 
der Ash  and  Man-who-wouldn't-stay-in-jail  cared  to 
go  with  them,  neither  he  nor  any  of  the  band  would 
put  forth  the  least  objection.  They  were  going  to  hunt 
buffalo  and  to  fill  their  Winter  lodges  with  meat,  and 
they  would  not  return  until  the  first  snows;  but  if, 
during  that  time,  they  saw  anything  of  Sun-in-the- 
hair  or  heard  of  her  through  any  one  whom  they  might 
meet,  why,  his  brother  knew  that  they  were  not  the 
white-woman-stealing  kind  nor  would  they  brook  it  in 
any  of  their  race.  This  speech  ended,  he  stalked  out 
without  deigning  to  explain  why  he  had  changed  his 
mind  about  the  time  of  starting,  or  why  he  had 
allowed  the  Missionary  to  leave  his  Winter  camp  across 
the  river  so  completely  deceived  in  regard  to  his  real 
intentions. 

Hugh  and  Locke  asked  nothing  more  however.  They 
at  once  set  about  their  own  preparations  for  the  long 
journey  into  the  wilderness.  It  took  but  a  couple  of 
days  to  perfect  their  arrangements.  They  folded  a 
tent  and  lashed  it  with  other  supplies  upon  a  pack 
horse,  turned  two  extra  ponies  into  the  Indian  herd  in 
case  anything  should  happen  to  the  ones  they  rode, 
and,  saddling  their  own  horses,  were  ready.  Early  on 
the  third  day,  the  camp  broke  up  and  filed  out  almost 
as  quietly  as  it  had  come,  leaving  a  deserted  hearth- 

[315] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

stone,  some  dead  ashes,  and  a  forlorn  aspect  of  lone- 
someness  and  decay.  Early  as  was  the  hour,  Locke 
had  wrapped  himself  completely  in  the  folds  of  an  In- 
dian blanket  to  guard  against  recognition  if  any  one 
should  be  about. 

The  meeting  with  the  young  warriors  of  Running 
Bird's  camp  was  a  strange  one  for  Locke.  It  was 
almost  a  year  since  he  had  met  them  as  an  organized 
band  for  the  first  and  last  time  until  now.  Then  they 
were  decked  out  in  hideous  raiment,  daubed  with  bril- 
liant pigments,  clamorous  with  whiskey,  and  carried 
away  with  pride  of  their  belligerent  demonstration. 
Now  they  were  quietly  enough  arrayed,  clean-skinned, 
reticent,  sober,  tolerant  —  fine  specimens  of  manhood 
every  one  of  them.  As  Running  Bird  had  grown  in 
stature  of  soul  and  mentality  and  in  physical  cleanli- 
ness as  well,  so  had  his  loyal  adherents  grown  in  the 
same  way.  His  influence  upon  them  was  marked  and 
all  for  good.  The  young  men  were  stronger  in  pur- 
pose, in  loyalty,  in  judgment,  in  morality,  in  everything 
which  makes  for  manhood  than  they  were  a  year  ago. 
Mad  Wolf,  always  a  malcontent,  now  a  murderer  and 
renegade,  was  believed  to  have  sought  protection  in 
the  hostile  camps  of  the  Powder  River  country.  Sev- 
eral others  not  in  sympathy  with  the  real  conservatism 
of  Running  Bird's  policies  had  withdrawn  not  only  from 
the  league  but  from  their  people  as  well  and  gone  their 
several  ways  as  inclination  guided  them.  Most  of 
them  were  fluttering  about  the  hostile  camps  with  those 
other  Brules  who  were  still  wild  and  unsettled.  The 

[316] 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEK 

society  had  gained,  too,  by  the  election  to  membership 
of  the  earnest  young  grandson  of  old  White  Shield. 
He  had  not  yet  won  his  spurs  but  he  was  universally 
liked  and  trusted  by  his  companions  who  knew  well  why 
he  wanted  to  accompany  them  to  the  Powder,  and 
they  were  very  glad  indeed  to  render  him  what  assist- 
ance they  could  in  trailing  his  grandfather's  murderer. 
All  understood,  tacitly,  that  young  Black  Bull  was  to 
have  the  first  chance.  If  he  failed,  the  band  was  in 
honor  bound  to  purge  itself  of  the  terrible  dishonor  the 
renegade  had  brought  upon  it  by  having  once  been  a 
member  of  the  soldier  band. 

Major  Mendenhall  had  known  of  this  volunteer  re- 
lief party,  but  he  little  dreamed  who  was  the  main 
instigator  of  it.  Certain  troops  which  he  had  ordered 
out  were  already  scouting  through  the  nearer  hills  west 
of  the  river  trying  to  locate  Yellow  Owl.  There  was 
no  specific  charge  against  Yellow  Owl.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  by  any  means  that  he  had  stolen  mysteriously 
away  from  his  own  Reservation  leaving  no  word  as 
to  the  why  and  the  wherefore.  But  because  Katharine 
Mendenhall  had  slipped  out  of  the  life  at  the  Agency 
at  the  very  same  time  that  Yellow  Owl  had  folded  his 
tent  and  silently  stolen  away,  it  behooved  the  Agent 
to  ascertain  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  whether  or 
not  any  meaning  might  be  attached  to  their  simulta- 
neous disappearances.  So  many  believed  her  to  be  at 
the  bottom  of  the  river,  however,  that  the  pursuit  was 
half-hearted ;  and  moreover  it  was  a  vast  region  in  which 
to  be  lost,  with  the  advantage  ever  on  the  side  of  the  one 

[317] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

lost  —  and  Yellow  Owl  was  lost,  at  least  to  the  ken  of  all 
on  the  Big  Bend  Reservation. 

There  followed  long  days  of  stern  marching  through 
a  rough  and  rugged  country,  and  long  nights  of 
troubled  sleep  for  the  Missionary  and  Locke  Raynor 
—  while  the  happy  Brules  hunted  buffalo.  They 
pressed  deeper  and  ever  deeper  into  the  wilds.  Occa- 
sionally, they  met  roaming  bands  of  hunters  like  them- 
selves. From  these  people,  they  received  varied  ac- 
counts of  a  Commission  appointed  to  make  a  treaty  for 
the  right  to  mine  in  the  Black  Hills,  and  once,  late  in 
the  Summer,  they  heard  that  Red  Cloud  and  Spotted 
Tail  were  in  the  midst  of  a  lively  and  acrimonious  dis- 
pute as  to  just  where  this  Commission  was  to  meet  all 
the  chiefs  and  head  men  of  the  Dakotas  in  council. 
They  had  not  yet  heard  what  location  was  finally  agreed 
upon  nor  how  the  council  had  resulted.  Hugh  was 
afraid  at  first  that  Running  Bird  would  desire  to  be 
present  at  this  meeting  which  was  to  bear  upon  a  sub- 
ject so  near  to  his  heart.  He  was  surprised,  there- 
fore, but  greatly  relieved  when  Running  Bird  made 
no  move  to  disband  and  take  his  representation  thither. 
So  the  Spring  had  grown  into  Summer  and  the  Sum- 
mer, wedding  the  sun,  had  borne  prairie  flower  children 
of  a  wild,  surpassing  beauty,  and  then  had  passed  into 
a  sweet,  serene,  blue-hilled,  dreamy  old  age.  The  Sum- 
mer was  gone  and  they  had  no  word  of  Katharine 
Mendenhall.  And  now  they  were  going  home. 

Towards  evening  of  the  following  day,  they  met 
with  a  vast  concourse  of  Indians  on  the  march  from 

[318] 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

the  southeast,  and  who  were  on  the  point  of  going  into 
camp  to  the  music  of  barking  dogs,  shouting  children, 
and  screaming  squaws,  mingled  with  the  din  and  clatter 
of  cooking  utensils,  as  the  pack  horses  were  relieved  of 
their  sounding  burdens.  The  head  chief  of  this  multi- 
tude proved  to  be  no  less  a  personage  than  that  high- 
minded  Uncpapa,  Chief  Gall,  who  immediately  invited 
Running  Bird  and  the  white  friends  travelling  under 
his  protection  to  a  feast  in  his  lodge  that  night. 

After  the  feast  and  the  smoke,  this  powerful  leader 
was  pleased  generously  to  praise  the  great  chief,  Little 
Thunder,  now  gone  into  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds, 
and  to  condemn  bitterly  the  cowardly  massacre  at  Ash 
Hollow.  He  commended  Running  Bird  for  many  brave 
deeds  of  which  he  had  heard  and  especially  for  that 
fine  loyalty  to  their  race  which  had  prompted  him  and 
the  others  of  his  soldier  band  to  swear  to  take  up  arms 
against  their  white  enemies  if  their  treaty  rights  were 
again  violated.  He  had  heard  about  that  patriotic  and 
splendid  war  demonstration  through  the  country  of  the 
Yanktons  who  had  already  bent  their  necks  and  were  too 
cowardly  to  say,  It  is  enough.  Perhaps  it  would  yet 
bear  fruit.  If,  when  the  Tetons  struck  —  the  Mission- 
ary always  on  the  alert  for  new  signs  of  dissatisfac- 
tion among  his  people  could  not  help  but  notice  the 
significant  change  of  expression  from  supposition  to 
positiveness  —  maybe  some  Yankton  would  be  found 
enlisted  under  the  standards  of  the  great  war  chiefs  of 
the  West,  and,  if  so,  to  Running  Bird  and  his  band 
would  be  ascribed  all  the  honor  of  this  change  of  heart. 

[319] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAII1 

Hugh  was  so  favorably  impressed  by  the  dignity,  the 
intelligence,  and  the  fair-mindedness  of  this  still  com- 
paratively young  chief  that  he  was  sorry  when  the 
eulogy  ended.  He  had  no  need  to  blush  for  his  friend, 
however.  Running  Bird  also  had  simple,  impressive, 
sweet-voiced  powers  of  oratory  and  the  past,  present, 
and  future  of  the  upright  Gall  were  extolled  to  the 
skies  in  terms  of  honest  admiration  and  with  a  becoming 
modesty  on  the  part  of  the  younger  man  in  thus  so 
freely  addressing  so  great  a  chief  and  leader  of  men. 
The  season  of  pleasant  interchange  of  compliment 
closed,  Gall  picked  up  a  new  thread  of  discourse.  His 
face  had  grown  very  grave  and  there  were  visible  signs 
of  an  intense  and  growing  excitement  on  the  counte- 
nances of  his  head  men  who  were  grouped  around  the 
lodge  in  the  order  of  strict  precedence. 

"  My  friends  are  journeying  from  the  Powder  east- 
ward to  the  Missouri,"  he  began,  in  a  musical  mono- 
tone which  gradually,  as  he  proceeded,  became  punc- 
tuated with  much  feeling.  "  They  have  hunted  all  the 
Summer  for  the  buffalo.  They  are  returning  with  much 
meat.  I  am  glad  that  their  lodges  will  groan  with 
plenty  this  Winter  and  that  their  children  will  not  have 
to  go  hungry.  I  have  heard  that  the  Great  Father 
does  not  always  count  very  well  or  else  he  forgets  and 
does  not  send  enough  provisions  to  the  Agencies  to 
keep  you  from  the  pains  of  an  empty  stomach.  Be- 
cause you  have  been  concerned  with  the  hunting  and 
have  been  so  far  away,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  you 
have  not  yet  heard  what  took  place  near  Red  Cloud's 

[320] 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

Agency  when  all  the  tribes  went  into  a  great  council 
there  with  the  Commission  appointed  by  the  Secretary 
of  the  Interior.  We  are  on  our  way  back  from  there 
now  for  our  own  Fall  hunting.  We  refused  to  have 
our  names  put  down  to  any  cheating  paper  which  said 
we  would  relinquish  any  part  of  our  land,  already  so 
pitifully  dwindled  away ;  and  when  their  head  man  said 
then  that  they  only  wanted  to  buy  the  right  to  mine  and 
take  the  gold  away,  we  said,  *  Pay  us  what  the  gold  is 
worth.*  They  would  not  pay  us  what  the  gold  was 
worth,  so  we  came  away.  They  said  we  asked  too  much. 
Red  Cloud  said,  '  Those  hills  extend  clear  to  the  sky,. 
maybe  they  go  above  the  sky,  and  that  is  the  reason  I 
ask  for  so  much.*  And  he  was  right.  They  are  worth 
more  to  us  than  the  Great  Father  will  ever  pay  us  for 
them.  Therefore  we  will  keep  them.  So  we  came 
away ;  and  the  Great  Father  has  turned  his  back  upon  us 
in  anger  because  we  did  not  run  to  give  him  what  he 
asked.  It  is  well  that  we  did  not;  because  if  we  had, 
then  we  should  all  have  died  pretty  soon  because  he 
wanted  our  buffalo  ranges  on  the  Powder  as  well  as 
our  gold  out  of  the  Hills.  How  then  could  we  main- 
tain ourselves  and  our  children?  We  would  starve  to 
death.  Perhaps  that  would  please  the  Great  Father. 
Then  he  could  have  all  our  land.  But  we  think  we  have 
a  right  to  live  and  to  have  our  land.  We  think  it  is 
the  Great  Father  who  asks  too  much.  We  could  not 
give  it,  so  he  took  his  soldiers  away,  and  the  people  are 
now  pouring  into  the  Black  Hills  by  the  many  thou- 
sands. It  is  revenge  on  us  for  not  giving  him  what 
21  [ 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

he  wanted.  He  does  not  care  anything  about  the  sacred 
promises  of  the  Treaty.  All  he  seems  to  care  about  is 
getting  our  land." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  The  glint  of  the  Mis- 
sionary's gold  cross,  caught  in  a  gleam  from  the 
smouldering  fire,  had  attracted  his  attention.  A  little 
shiver  ran  over  Hugh.  Was  there  anything  he  could 
say  now  in  answer  to  the  arraignment  of  that  cross, 
which  he  felt  was  coming?  If  it  could  only  be  that  his 
own  race  did  not  make  it  so  hard  —  so  hard ! 

"  I  have  heard,"  continued  Gall,  quietly,  "  that  the 
white  man's  God  has  a  fiery  hell  for  people  who  lie, 
steal,  swear  falsely,  kill,  covet.  I  think  he  must  be  a 
very  fine  God.  I  think  I  should  like  to  know  such  a 
God.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  these  white  men  who 
lie  to  us,  who  covet  our  land,  who  swear  by  their  Great 
Holy  Spirit  that  they  will  abide  by  the  promises  of 
the  Treaty  and  then  don't ;  who  steal  our  land  when 
we  won't  give  it  to  them,  and  kill  us  when  we  dare 
to  fight  for  it,  will  some  day  be  caught  in  a  mighty 
prairie  fire  and  burn  and  burn.  I  should  like  it  very 
much  if  the  white  priest,  friend  of  Running  Bird, 
would  ask  this  Great  Spirit  to  start  the  fire  in  my  day. 
The  Dakotas  will  promise  not  to  put  it  out.  Then  when 
the  white  men  are  all  burned  up,  perhaps  we  can  enjoy 
our  birthright  in  peace." 

Sarcasm  pure  and  simple  —  not  sacrilege,  for  how 
could  Gall  be  sacrilegious  when  he  did  not  know?  And 
what  brilliant  and  double-edged  sarcasm  it  was!  Of 
what  fatal  folly  they  must  dispossess  themselves  who 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

thought  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  them  to  begin  at 
the  very  foundation  of  intelligence  in  the  endeavor  to 
instil  some  learning  and  some  culture  of  soul  into  the 
minds  of  an  ignorant,  low,  brutal  people!  Did  GalFs 
whole  discourse  show  much  of  ignorance,  lowness, 
brutality,  or  arrested  development?  Hugh  thought 
not,  and  he  only  answered  simply : 

"  The  Great  Spirit  is  always  hoping  that  all  His 
children,  red  and  white,  will  be  sorry  that  they  have  lied, 
coveted,  sworn  falsely,  stolen,  and  killed.  That  is  why, 
I  think,  He  does  not  give  us  the  Happy  Hunting 
Grounds  until  we  have  left  this  world.  I  think  He 
wants  to  give  us  all  the  time  there  is  in  which  to  be  sorry. 
He  hopes  that  we  will  all  be  sorry  so  that  we  can 
all  be  ready.  No  one  can  enter  who  is  not  first 
sorry.5* 

His  heart  was  aching.  Must  he  lose  Running  Bird 
after  all  —  and  all  those  others  ?  He  had  never  under- 
stood quite  so  well  before  that  Running  Bird  had 
made  a  solemn  vow  to  take  up  arms  in  the  event  of  a 
breaking  of  the  Treaty  obligations  on  the  part  of  the 
United  States.  And  how  well  he  understood  now  that 
j  ourney  into  the  country  of  the  peaceful  Yanktons !  It 
had  all  grown  out  of  the  first  fierce  resentment  and  fear 
of  the  Government's  good  faith  when  General  Custer 
was  sent  out  to  the  Hills  on  a  reconnoissance  more  than 
a  year  ago.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  lose 
Running  Bird;  but  if  the  young  Indian  went  over  to 
the  hostiles  now  would  he  not  have  passed  from  him 
forever?  Running  Bird's  vows  were  terrible  things. 

[323] 


tTHE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

That  had  been  evidenced  in  the  Sun  Dance  when  he  kept 
his  word  after  the  reason  for  giving  it  had  altogether 
passed  away.  Who  was  there  out  in  the  Powder  River 
country  to  tell  him  about  the  Man  Who  did  not  fight 
back  ?  "  Our  Father,  we  have  very  much  to  answer 
for,"  said  Hugh,  in  his  discouragement ;  then  he  squared 
his  shoulders  and  a  light  came  into  his  eyes :  "  but  if 
we  are  so  frail  after  having  the  Great  Apostle  sent  to 
us,  I  must  not  then  lose  heart  because  my  red  children 
—  Thine  and  mine  —  fall  often  and  often  under  the 
leadership  of  a  little  disciple  like  me."  He  smiled  and 
that  smile  was  a  wonderful  composite  of  tenderness, 
resolution,  faith,  love.  Was  there  anything  to  keep 
him  from  following  Running  Bird  into  the  Powder 
River  country  again?  A  far  mightier  than  he  had 
sanctioned  leaving  the  ninety  and  nine  to  seek  one  — 
just  one  —  who  was  lost. 

"  Yellow  Owl  was  not  at  the  council  according  to 
this  Gall,"  said  Locke,  in  deep  discouragement,  when 
they  had  returned  to  their  own  tipi.  He  was  thin  with 
the  strain  of  the  past  Summer.  His  mouth  was  hard  and 
his  eyes  were  haunted.  "  Where  is  he,  Hugh?  " 

"  I  wish  I  knew,  Locke." 

"  I  had  hoped  against  hope  that  some  one  amongst 
all  that  crowd  would  have  seen  Yellow  Owl  or  Katha- 
rine, and  I  '11  warrant  you  they  have,  too.  Hugh,  if 
they  have  harmed  her,  I  shall  tear  out  their  hearts.  I 
mean  it." 

"  Chief  Gall  is  not  a  woman-stealer." 

They  turned  quickly.     Running  Bird  stood   in   the 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

entrance  way.  A  breath  of  the  cool  October  night  had 
come  in  with  him. 

"  He  has  promised  to  send  a  runner  to  me  if  he  should 
ever  find  Sun-in-the-hair  in  a  Dakota  camp,"  continued 
Running  Bird. 

Hugh  stood  up.  He  went  to  Running  Bird  and  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  with  the  old  affectionate 
caress  —  the  same  which  he  had  used  when  they  two 
had  answered  that  grim  old  Indian-fighter  at  Fort  Lar- 
amie  when  they  went  to  see  if  Red  Cloud  would  keep 
faith  and  to  help  him  to  do  it  if  they  could. 

"  My  brother  — "  he  began,  and  Running  Bird  heard 
him  patiently  to  the  end  of  his  impassioned  plea  for  the 
Indian  to  go  with  him  into  the  neutral  country,  where 
no  fighting  was  or  would  be,  and  to  stay  with  him 
there. 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  back  with  you,"  he  said  then,  simply., 
"  The  country  all  about  is  full  of  Dakotas  coming  from 
the  council.  They  are  very  bitter.  Soon  they  will  be 
gathering  for  war.  There  is  no  other  way,  it  seems. 
I  will  go  back  with  you  to  your  Agency  because  a  white 
man  needs  an  Indian  friend  very  much  now.  We  will 
pass  through  the  Hills  on  our  way  back  to  see  for  our- 
selves if  they  are  filling  up  with  white  people.  I  want 
to  be  very  sure  for  my  little  white  brother's  sake.  After 
that,  perhaps  we  shall  talk  again." 

He  did  not  say  anything  about  staying  at  the  Agency 
and  Hugh  continued  to  be  much  troubled  in  heart.  In 
accordance  with  Running  Bird's  desire,  they  passed 
through  the  beautiful  Black  Hills  and  found  that  Gall 

[325] 


SDHE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

had  not  exaggerated  conditions  in  his  statement  of 
facts.  The  country  was  literally  swarming  with  miners. 
The  gates  were  wide  open  at  last. 

The  Summer  hunters  reached  home  and  went  their 
several  ways.  With  the  Brules  that  Winter  lived  a 
stranger  —  a  white  man  —  but  no  one  of  his  kind, 
except  the  Missionary,  ever  saw  him  or  knew  that  he 
was  there.  The  unusual  severity  of  the  Winter  for- 
bade much  travel.  Like  Yellow  Owl  and  Mad  Wolf, 
the  Man-who-would  n't-stay-in-jail  was  safely  lost  some- 
where in  the  heart  of  the  Great  Sioux  Reservation.  He 
was  really  as  secure  from  apprehension  by  the  United 
States  authorities,  at  least  until  Spring  opened,  as  he 
would  have  been  had  no  verdict  of  "  Guilty "  been 
hanging  over  his  head.  In  the  early  part  of  the 
Winter,  the  fatalist,  Black  Tomahawk,  gathered  the 
remnants  of  his  family  about  him,  including  all  his 
immediate  relatives,  and  went  into  the  Powder  River 
country  to  hunt.  Many  Indians  from  that  and  other 
Agencies  went  west  with  the  consent  of  their  Agents 
to  hunt  buffalo  in  the  unceded  territory.  They  had 
need  to  go  because  it  was  one  of  the  lean  years  at  the 
Agencies,  and  they  had  a  right  to  go  under  the  Treaty. 
Still,  Running  Bird  had  not  "  talked  again,"  and  a 
great  hope  sprang  up  in  Hugh's  heart. 

In  December,  the  Commissioner  of  Indian  Affairs 
sent  word  that  all  the  Agency  Indians  who  were  then 
in  the  unceded  territory  and  who  did  not  return  to  their 
several  Agencies  before  the  thirty-first  of  January  would 
be  considered  hostile.  The  runners  who  carried  the 

[326] 


THE    GATES    THROWN    OPEN 

message  to  the  Indians  were  not  able  to  get  back  until 
some  time  in  February.  The  army  had  long  since  been 
obliged  to  suspend  all  operations  on  account  of  the 
severity  of  the  season.  The  hunters  had  their  wives  and 
children  with  them.  Few  would  have  survived  a  re- 
turn journey  through  the  trackless,  Winter-gripped 
wilderness.  But  the  order  said  "  before  the  thirty-first 
of  January,"  so  on  the  first  day  of  February,  the 
allotted  time  having  expired  and  the  Indians  not  hav- 
ing returned  as  they  were  commanded,  the  Secretary 
of  the  Interior  declared  them  hostile  and  turned  them 
over  to  the  War  Department,  that  the  military  author- 
ities might  deal  with  them  as  they  saw  fit.  General 
Sheridan  immediately  declared  war  upon  them. 

On  the  first  of  March,  Running  Bird  "  talked  again.'* 
"  I  go  now.  Good-bye.  The  Great  Father  has  de- 
clared war  against  us  and  there  is  no  other  way.  He 
commanded  the  Agency  Indians  to  return  from  the 
hunting,  but  he  did  not  give  them  time  to  get  back. 
By  never  sleeping  or  resting,  no  one  could  have  gotten 
back  so  soon.  The  messenger  ran  very  fast,  but  he 
could  not  get  back  until  away  in  February.  Black 
Tomahawk  was  very  friendly  to  the  whites  but  he  did 
not  have  wings  to  fly  back  with  White  Flower  and  Smoke 
Woman  and  the  old  mother.  Now  he  cannot  come  back 
because  the  Great  Father  has  said.  Black  Tomahawk 
is  a  proud  man.  You  will  see.  He  will  never  return 
even  when  the  Great  Father  is  very  sorry.  When  the 
soldiers  were  taken  away  from  guarding  the  Black  Hills, 
my  heart  cried  out  loud,  go,  but  I  waited  for  my  little 

[327] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

white  brother's  sake.  But  when  the  Great  Father  com- 
-mands  us  to  do  what  cannot  be  done,  then  I  see  that  I 
liave  waited  too  long.  It  is  enough.  It  will  be  well 
for  him  if  he  has  plenty  of  ammunition  and  a  very  fast 
Jiorse." 

He  turned  to  go.     At  the  door,  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  A  runner  came  in  last  night  from  Gall,"  he  said. 
166  The  chief  keeps  his  promises.  He  has  seen  Yellow 
Owl.  The  Agent's  daughter  is  not  with  the  medicine 
man." 


[  328  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN    THE    CAMP    OF    THE    DAKOTAS 

JUNE  on  the  Powder  River ! 
Katharine  Mendenhall,  daughter  of  Major  and 
Mrs.  Mendenhall,  and  White  Flower,  daughter  of  Chief 
Black  Tomahawk  and  Smoke  Woman,  though  so  unlike 
yet  presented  many  points  of  resemblance  on  this  Sum- 
mer day.  The  Caucasian  girl  was  so  tanned  as  to  be 
almost  as  swarthy  in  complexion  as  the  Dakota  maid. 
Indeed,  at  a  cursory  glance,  she  might  very  easily  have 
been  mistaken  for  an  Indian.  Closer  inspection,  how- 
ever, would  have  revealed  the  blue  eyes,  finer  features, 
and  still  yellow  though  much  sunburned  hair  of  the 
dominant  race.  She  was  clad  in  neatly  fitting  garments 
of  antelope  skin,  whose  short  fringed  skirt  gave  the 
whole  costume  a  bizarre  but  finished  and  rather  dressy 
air  of  distinction.  Katharine  was  well  pleased  with  her 
handiwork.  She  had  spent  much  time  and  labor  upon 
the  fashioning  of  it.  She  was  much  changed  but  very 
beautiful  still.  She  would  always  be  beautiful.  The 
out-of-door  life  for  more  than  a  year  had  given  her 
freedom  of  step,  added  grace  of  movement,  much  self- 
reliance,  abounding  health.  All  these  attributes  White 
Flower  possessed  in  common  with  Katharine  Mendenhall. 

[329] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Perhaps  the  young  women  were  not  so  different  after 
all. 

The  awful  shadow  of  the  fear  of  death  which  had 
rested  upon  Katharine's  fair  face  ever  since  that  ter- 
rible early  twilight  of  storm,  when  Yellow  Owl  turned 
her  horse's  head  another  way,  lifted  when  Black  Toma- 
hawk came  into  the  buffalo  country  to  hunt.  Life  had 
been  bearable  since  that  day;  for,  although  the  old 
Yanktonais  chief  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  take 
her  home,  however  much  she  begged  with  tears  and 
prayers  and  promises  of  fabulous  rewards,  instinctively 
she  trusted  him  and  in  her  heart  believed  that  he  would 
keep  her  from  harm.  He  never  bent  to  explain  to 
this  white  captive  why  she  had  been  removed  from  the 
lodge  of  Yellow  Owl  and  brought  to  Black  Tomahawk's 
own  happier  home,  where  the  grateful-hearted  but  si- 
lent Smoke  Woman  ministered  to  her  comfort  as  to 
an  honored  guest,  and  where  the  Chief  himself  showed 
her  much  deference  while  maintaining  his  steadfast  un- 
communicativeness,  and  Katharine  did  not  ask  why. 
She  only  thanked  God  that  the  hideous  nightmare  of 
her  life  in  Yellow  Owl's  lodge  was  over.  During  that 
time,  every  day  that  dawned  had  been  a  fear-enshrouded 
one.  She  had  never  risen  from  her  couch  of  skins  with- 
out asking  herself,  Is  this  the  last  day  I  have  to  live? 
They  had  been  all  days  of  much  pain  and  labor  and 
weariness  besides  the  constant  dread.  The  fierce,  vin- 
dictive, hating  wife  of  the  Indian  doctor  had  forced 
her  to  toil  to  which  she  was  wholly  untrained  and  un- 
accustomed, and  had  lashed  her  with  sarcastic  epithets 

[330] 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTAS 

of  which,  happily,  she  understood  nothing  but  the 
spirit.  She  had  asked  herself  why  so  many  times  since 
that  initial  journey  into  the  frozen  and  storm-beaten 
hostile  country  that  she  was  weary  of  asking  without 
answer,  and,  like  a  tired  child  come  home,  without  ques- 
tion, she  nestled  down  and  basked  in  the  sure  and  kindly 
protection  of  her  Indian  friends. 

What  did  Yellow  Owl  want  with  her?  Why  had  he 
stolen  her  away  from  her  home  ?  What  was  he  going  to 
do  with  her?  Where  was  he  going  to  take  her?  Would 
he  kill  her?  How  would  he  do  it?  Would  he  torture 
her  first?  Would  he  burn  fagots  under  her  feet  and" 
arm-pits  as  she  had  heard  once  that  certain  Pawnees 
did  long  ago  to  a  captive  Sioux  maiden  called  Haxti? 
Would  they  shoot  her  full  of  arrows  or  would  they  use 
guns  now?  Was  she  to  be  a  sacrifice  to  some  heathen 
god?  These  were  some  of  the  questions  which  had 
shadowed  Katharine  Mendenhall's  life  all  during  the 
months  of  her  captivity  to  the  treacherous  medicine 
man,  and  had  thinned  her  face,  hollowed  her  eyes  and 
brought  there  a  look  of  dread  which  even  the  renewed 
hope  and  joy  of  life  under  the  beneficent  care  of  Black 
Tomahawk  and  Smoke  Woman  could  not  altogether 
obliterate. 

It  was  not  all  peace  in  Black  Tomahawk's  lodge,  how- 
ever. Katharine  received  scant  courtesy  from  the  old 
grandmother;  and  White  Flower  at  first  ignored  her 
presence  with  the  serene  indifference  of  superb  acting, 
behaving  on  all  occasions  just  as  if  the  white  interloper 
were  not  and  never  had  been  there. 

[331] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

Gradually,  however,  White  Flower's  assumed  indif- 
ference gave  place  to  an  attitude  of  armed  neutrality 
which  in  good  time  took  on  the  likeness  of  tolerance; 
and  finally,  this  last  dreamer  child  of  the  Chief,  while 
hating  the  whites  with  as  much  fervid  and  jealous 
resentment  as  ever,  came  to  except  this  one  sweet  girl 
from  her  general  condemnation  and  to  admit  her,  not 
yet  to  the  inner  sanctuary  of  her  heart's  secrets  and 
purposes,  not  yet  to  the  like  of  that  fellowship  which 
was  tearing  the  heart  strings  of  Running  Bird  be- 
cause he  and  Hugh  Hunt  had  come  to  the  parting  of 
the  ways,  but  to  a  friendship  that  was  very  real  and 
very  honest,  though  ever  unexpressed.  It  was  then 
White  Flower  told  Katharine  that  Yellow  Owl's  act  was 
the  outcome  of  that  time  when  a  daughter  of  the  de- 
spised whites  had  dared  to  administer  magic  medi- 
cine to  a  Dakota  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  Dakota 
doctor.  That  was  the  one  unforgivable  affront.  He 
planned  the  abduction  that  very  night  while  he  stood 
with  folded  arms  looking  down  upon  the  little  group 
at  the  bedside.  He  told  her  father  so  a  long  time  after- 
wards. At  first,  Black  Tomahawk  could  only  guess 
what  had  happened  to  Big  Neck's  daughter.  His  one 
great  reason  for  coming  out  to  the  hunt  was  to  see  if 
Yellow  Owl  had  done  this  thing.  How  the  medicine 
man  hated  Katharine !  He  had  never  forgotten.  He 
had  only  bided  his  time. 

"  What  was  he  going  to  do  with  me,  White  Flower?  " 
Katharine  asked  once. 

[332] 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTA  S 

"  Ask  the  birds  that  fly  all  about  us,"  White  Flower 
answered  evasively.  "  They  see  more  than  I  do." 

"  But  Black  Tomahawk  will  never  let  him  hurt  me 
now.  He  never  will,  will  he,  White  Flower?  "  Katha- 
rine pleaded. 

"  No,  he  never  will,"  said  White  Flower,  moodily. 
She  was  wishing  with  all  her  bitter  heart  —  almost  — 
that  there  were  not  something  about  this  girl  of  the 
hated  race  which  prevented  her  —  White  Flower,  the 
Dreamer  —  from  enticing  her  away  from  Black  Tom- 
ahawk's protection  and  delivering  her  to  the  vengeance 
of  the  waiting  medicine  man. 

"  When  will  he  send  me  back  to  my  father  and 
mother?  It  has  been  so  long!  They  cry  for  me  every 
day  and  think  that  I  am  dead.  When  will  he  send  me 
back,  dear?  Ask  him!  " 

"  He  will  never  send  you  back,"  said  White  Flower, 
with  a  snap  of  her  black  eyes.  "  Not  now  1  He  meant 
to  take  you  back  when  he  found  you.  We  were  all 
going  back.  My  father  forced  Yellow  Owl  to  give 
you  up.  Yellow  Owl  whined  and  whined,  but  my 
father  is  a  very  great  chief,  and  he  gave  Yellow  Owl 
the  best  horses  in  the  herd.  But  then  what?  Then 
came  the  runners,  beaten  down  by  the  snow  and  the 
icy  wind.  We  had  to  let  them  rest  in  our  lodges,  and 
we  fed  them  good  buffalo  stews  —  otherwise,  they 
would  have  died  from  the  exposure  and  could  not  have 
gone  on  to  the  other  camps  and  villages.  What  did 
they  say,  these  runners?  That  the  Great  Father  had 

[333] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

sent  for  us  all  to  go  back  to  the  Agencies,  right  in  the 
heart  of  the  cruel  Winter,  before  the  last  day  of  the 
New  Year  month,  if  we  wanted  to  save  ourselves  from 
the  ignominy  of  being  declared  hostile.  Was  not 
my  father  always  friendly  to  the  whites  —  too  friendly  ? 
What  a  return  was  that  for  all  his  goodness !  Was  he 
a  deer  that  he  could  run  so  fast,  or  a  bird  to  fly  so 
swiftly?  He  could  not  possibly  have  gotten  back  so 
soon  even  if  he  could  have  escaped  being  lost  in  the 
snow  storms  or  frozen  to  death  by  the  terrible  cold.  So 
they  said  they  would  fight  him  to  the  death.  It  was 
only  an  excuse  to  get  to  push  the  Dakotas  off  the  face 
of  the  earth.  They  said  my  father  was  unfriendly. 
They  lied.  Did  it  look  like  unfriendliness  in  him,  to 
save  you  from  the  vengeance  of  Yellow  Owl  and  to 
plan  to  return  you  to  your  home  as  soon  as  Spring 
opened?  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  take  you  back 
now?" 

"  But,  White  Flower,"  cried  Katharine,  earnestly, 
"  Black  Tomahawk  need  not  be  afraid.  Does  he  im- 
agine that  any  harm  could  come  to  him  after  taking 
his  Agent's  daughter  safe  home?  My  dear  girl,  there 
is  not  a  white  man  in  the  world  who  would  touch  him 
after  he  had  done  that.  Tell  him,  dear,  tell  him! 
There  is  not  one!  So  much  do  my  people  love  their 
own  that  your  father  should  go  free  though  he  were  a 
thousand  times  a  hostile." 

"  Afraid ! "  For  a  moment,  it  seemed  as  if  White 
Flower  were  going  to  laugh.  She  checked  the  im- 
pulse and  continued  scornfully :  "  Did  you  think  it 

[334] 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTAS 

was  because  he  was  afraid?  The  Great  Father  said, 
*  You  cannot  come  back  now.  It  is  too  late.'  *  Very 
well,'  say  the  Dakotas,  *  it  is  too  late.  We  will  never 
go  back.' " 

"My  father  is  not  the  Great  Father  at  Washing- 
ton," said  Katharine,  hopelessly.  "  He  did  not  issue 
that  unjust  and  impossible  demand.  He  is  your  father's 
friend  and  yours." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why  Black  Tomahawk  did  not  send 
you  back  to  live  in  Yellow  Owl's  lodge  when  he  found 
that  he  could  not  return  to  the  Agency,"  said  White 
Flower,  with  a  sage  shake  of  her  head.  "  But  he  will 
never  let  you  go  home.  You  shall  see.  The  Dakotas 
think  it  is  enough." 

Most  of  such  conversations  between  the  two  girls 
were  carried  on  in  the  Dakota  language.  So  in- 
tensely desirous  of  understanding  what  was  going  on 
around  her  in  this  savage  and,  for  the  most  part,  un- 
friendly village  was  Katharine,  that  she  had  early  set 
herself  the  task  of  learning  to  understand  and  to  speak 
this  strange  tongue.  White  Flower,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  she  undoubtedly  understood  English  long  be- 
fore she  would  acknowledge  it,  absolutely  refused  to  con- 
verse in  that  despised  language. 

On  this  June  day,  as  the  two  idled  away  the  long, 
Sdreamy,  Summer  afternoon  on  the  bank  of  the  racing 
river,  a  moving  dot  appeared  on  the  plain  to  the  west. 
It  grew  steadily  in  size  and  form.  It  was  evidently 
approaching  rapidly.  Soon  out  of  the  vague  and 
illusive  shadow-building  of  the  shimmering  distance 

[3S5] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

was  evolved  the  semblance  of  a  man  riding  swiftly  their 
way.  Katharine  arose,  hurriedly,  with  a  quickly 
blanching  face,  the  little  measure  of  content  she  had  so 
hardly  won  giving  way  at  once  to  the  old  fret  and  fear 
and  rebellion  at  this  sight  of  a  strange  savage  riding 
so  purposefully  toward  them.  The  whole  country  had 
been  checkered  with  roving  bands  of  unfriendly  In- 
dians since  the  opening  of  Spring.  They  seemed  to 
be  increasing  in  number.  Many  stopped  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Inkpaduta,  with  whom  Black  Tomahawk  had 
elected  to  cast  in  his  lot  when  he  was  wantonly  barred 
from  his  peaceful  home  on  the  shores  of  the  distant 
Missouri.  Many  were  the  fierce  and  lowering  glances 
which  were  bestowed  upon  Katharine  Mendenhall  by 
these  visiting  warriors.  Such  was  the  bitterness 
against  all  whites  in  that  Spring  of  seventy-six  that 
many  demands  were  made  upon  Inkpaduta  to  deliver 
her  to  the  death;  and  Black  Tomahawk  was  often  put 
to  it  to  devise  ways  and  means  of  averting  the  awful 
tragedy  which  was  threatening  his  captive.  He  was 
compelled  constantly  to  marshal  all  his  forces  of  in- 
genuity and  diplomacy  to  combat  successfully  the  wily 
suggestions  and  arguments  of  his  host,  and  to  con- 
vince this  crafty  over-lord  that  the  white  girl  was  his 
—  Black  Tomahawk's  —  to  do  as  he  pleased  with.  He 
had  purchased  her.  He  meant  to  adopt  her.  These 
chance  visitors  were  overstepping  all  authority  in 
their  arrogant  demands,  and  he  called  upon  Inkpaduta 
to  protect  him  in  his  rights.  In  return,  he  gave  sol- 
emn assurance  that  the  prisoner  should  never  be  sur- 

[336] 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTAS 

rendered  to  the  enemy.  There  was  no  ransom  smaller 
than  the  complete  expulsion  of  the  invaders  from  the 
Black  Hills  and  the  price  of  the  gold  therein  that 
could  purchase  her  deliverance.  In  those  days,  Black 
Tomahawk's  old,  dreamy,  retrospective  look  had  un- 
dergone subtle  change.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  bold, 
gleaming  with  fire  and  youth,  as  if,  now  that  at  last 
the  great  national  note  had  been  struck,  and  the  sound 
of  it  had  arisen  as  one  mighty  rallying  cry  from 
every  camp  and  village  and  isolated  lodge  from  the  Mis- 
souri River  to  the  Big  Horn  Mountains,  he  was  trying 
to  put  himself  in  the  place  of  one  of  his  boys  who  had 
died  too  soon.  On  account  of  this  awakening  of  his 
fighting  spirit,  he  had  won  much  respect  in  Inkpa- 
duta's  village.  So  far,  his  influence  for  Katharine's 
safety  had  prevailed.  But  if  she  had  sought  to  es- 
cape, or  if  any  had  tried  to  assist  her  in  escaping,  not 
even  excepting  Black  Tomahawk  himself,  her  life 
would  have  immediately  paid  the  forfeit.  Mutterings 
of  these  threats  reached  Katharine  through  White 
Flower.  It  was  no  wonder  then  that  fear  clutched  her 
heart  and  that  she  turned  to  flee  back  to  the  village 
at  sight  of  a  strange  warrior  who  might  very  easily 
take  her  life  down  here  by  the  river,  where  there  was 
no  one  to  see. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  said  White  Flower,  with  an  intent 
gaze.  "  Perhaps  it  is  some  one  we  know.  Perhaps  it 
is  some  one  from  Big  Bend.  More  and  more  our  people 
come." 

Unwilling  to  linger,  and  yet  afraid  to  go  without 
22  [ 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

White  Flower,  Katharine  stood  hesitatingly  on  the 
bank  and  gazed  shrinkingly  at  the  horseman.  There 
could  be  no  mistaking  his  nationality.  He  rode  with 
the  reckless  abandon  of  the  Indian.  And  then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  the  blanket  horror  of  all  those  long,  terrible 
months  lifted  from  Katharine  Mendenhall's  crushed 
spirit  as  a  fog  lifts  at  the  coming  of  the  sun. 

"  Running  Bird ! "  she  cried  tremulously.  ^  It  is 
Running  Bird!  White  Flower,  do  you  hear?  It  is 
Running  Bird ! " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  White  Flower,  composedly.  Her 
Indian  eyes  must  have  recognized  Running  Bird  long 
before  Katharine  knew  him,  but  she  had  given  no  sign. 
She  had  not  moved  from  the  spot  where  she  and  Katha- 
rine had  been  sitting. 

Running  Bird  scarcely  paused  at  the  opposite  bank, 
but  urged  his  horse  into  the  swift  river  at  once.  He 
landed  some  distance  below  the  place  where  the  two  girls 
were  waiting.  Katharine  ran  to  meet  him.  Her  heart 
was  beating  so  wildly  that  she  hardly  realized  what  she 
was  doing.  Her  cheeks  burned  a  deep  dusky  red  beneath 
the  tan  of  her  outdoor  life.  Her  eyes  were  as  bright 
as  stars,  shining  with  the  gladdest  relief  she  had  ever 
felt  in  her  life,  perhaps.  Running  Bird  dismounted  and 
stood  before  her.  Being  an  Indian,  he  gave  no  demon- 
strative greeting,  showed  no  emotion  at  seeing  her. 
If  he  was  surprised,  he  did  not  express  it  in  word  or 
manner.  He  did  not  see  White  Flower  at  all.  At 
least,  he  did  not  so  much  as  glance  her  way. 

"  Oh,  Running  Bird,  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad ! "  cried 
[338] 


Oh,  Running  Bird,"  cried  Katharine,  "do  my  father  and  mother 
know  where  I  am?" 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTAS 

Katharine.  "  Tell  me  everything !  How  are  my 
father  and  mother?  How  did  you  get  here?  Did  you 
know  I  was  here?  You  have  come  to  help  me,  have  n't 
you?  Why  were  you  so  long  in  coming?  Do  my 
father  and  mother  know  where  I  am?  " 

When  she  finally  paused  in  her  tumultuous  and  in- 
coherent questionings,  exhausted  by  the  very  vehemence 
of  them,  Running  Bird  answered  her  quietly : 

"  Your  father  and  mother  are  well,  but  they  grieve 
all  the  time.  They  think  that  your  spirit  has  stolen 
away  from  the  earth  and  will  never  come  back." 

"  Take  me  home  quickly,  Running  Bird !  Oh,  it  has 
been  so  long !  Take  me  home !  Please !  Please !  " 

"  Why  have  you  stayed  away  so  long  ?  Why  did  n't 
you  go  home  to  the  parents  who  have  sorrow  all  the 
time  now  ?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know  I  am  a  pris- 
oner?" 

"  Whose  prisoner?  " 

"I  don't  know.  First,  it  was  Yellow  Owl.  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  kill  me.  Then,  Black  Tom- 
ahawk came  the  next  Winter  and  took  me  away.  There 
is  Inkpaduta,  too.  I  don't  understand  how  he  is  mixed 
up  in  it  all,  but  he  is  the  big  man  of  this  village  and  he 
won't  let  me  go." 

"  Is  Black  Tomahawk  your  friend?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  is.  I  am  sure  he  is.  I  should  have 
died  without  him  and  Smoke  Woman  and  —  White 
Flower." 

"  Then  why  does  n't  he  take  you  home?  " 
[339] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  I  don't  know.  Oh,  I  have  begged  him  on  my 
knees !  White  Flower  says  he  never  will  because  of 
that  impossible  order  which  resulted  in  his  exile.  What 
a  monumental  blunder  that  was,  Running  Bird!  But 
my  father  was  not  responsible  for  it  in  the  least.  I  am 
sure  of  that.  I  think  Black  Tomahawk  believes  in  my 
father,  too,  and  would  help  me  if  it  were  not  for  Ink- 
paduta  and  the  rest." 

"  Black  Tomahawk  is  your  friend,  but  he  is  only 
one,  and  he  cannot  help  you.  I  am  your  friend,  but 
I,  also,  am  only  one.  I  came  alone.  I  bear  a  mes- 
sage for  Inkpaduta.  How  then  can  I  help  you?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  —  that  you  are  n't  going  to  help 
me  to  —  get  away  ?  "  asked  Katharine,  slowly  and  con- 
fusedly, a  bewildered  look  creeping  into  her  eyes.  "  I 
—  I  —  so  counted  on  you,  Running  Bird." 

"  You  asked  me  why  I  have  been  so  long  in  coming," 
said  the  Indian,  not  answering  her  directly.  "  We 
came  many  times,  but  we  could  not  find  you.  No  one 
knew  where  Yellow  Owl  was.  Big  Neck  even  sent  his 
soldiers;  but  the  medicine  man  was  too  smart  to  let 
them  see  him.  At  last,  Big  Neck  decided  that  you 
must  have  fallen  through  the  ice ;  and  now  he  goes 
about  his  business  again,  though  he  is  all  the  time  sad 
and  does  not  care  to  eat.  But  the  mother  dreams  and 
dreams  all  day  long  and  in  the  night,  and  sees  visions, 
and  knows  that  you  are  in  an  Indian  camp.  She  has 
seen  you  there  many  times,  she  says.  So  she  cannot  be 
content.  Last  year,  after  the  ice  went  out,  the  Mis- 
sionary and  the  Man-who-would  n't-stay-in-jail  accom- 

[340] 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTA  S^ 

panied  Running  Bird  and  his  braves  and  all  the  women 
and  children  of  the  camp  into  the  Powder  River  country 
to  hunt.  They  came  to  seek  Sun-in-the-hair." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  *  man  who  would  n't 
stay  in  jail'?"  asked  Katharine,  faintly.  She  was 
trembling,  uncontrollably. 

"  I  mean  the  man  who  wouldn't  stay  in  jail  because 
he  loved  you.  He  broke  out  and  came  away  to  find 
you.  No  white  man  knows  where  he  is  except  the 
Missionary." 

"  Oh !  "  was  Katharine's  only  answer.  He  was  safe  t 
No  matter  how  or  why  or  where.  He  was  safe !  He 
had  not  died  for  a  crime  he  had  never  committed.  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Where  is  he  now?"  she  asked,  at  last,  eagerly. 
"  Tell  him  where  I  am  and  he  will  come  for  me." 

"  And  be  shot  down  before  he  has  fairly  started.  It 
is  too  late  now  for  any  white  man  to  hope  to  find 
friends  among  the  Dakotas  gathering  to  sweep  down 
like  a  mighty  flood  and  drive  the  invaders  out  of  our 
Hills  once  and  for  all  time.  Where  is  Yellow  Owl 
now?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Katharine,  forlornly,  her  brief 
hope  shattered  by  this  blunt  speech.  "  White  Flower 
said  he  was  a  big  war  chief  now  at  the  head  of  a  great 
army.  She  said  he  talked  himself  into  that  position. 
He  saw  glorious  visions  of  victory  and  interpreted  them 
to  the  young  warriors.  Always  the  dreams  reeked  with 
hate  of  us  whites.  Is  there  really  going  to  be  a  war, 
Running  Bird,  a  general  up-rising?  " 

[341] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"  For  a  long  time,  the  young  men  and  the  braves  have 
been  slipping  away  from  the  Agencies.  Many  went 
in  the  Fall,  others  in  the  Winter,  still  some  in  the 
Spring.  There  is  no  one  left  but  the  old  men  and  the 
women  and  the  children.  If  the  Great  Father  were 
not  blinded  by  the  fool  counsels  of  his  war  chiefs,  he 
would  look  around  and  see  for  himself  that  this  is  so. 
He  does  not  dream  that  we  are  so  many.  He  has  not 
been  able  to  number  those  in  the  buffalo  country.  They 
were  too  wise  for  him  and  too  wary.  And  he  does  not 
know  that  so  many  of  us  have  left  the  Agencies.  His 
war  chiefs  walk  around  a  little,  see  our  women  making 
fires  and  jerking  beef,  and  then  they  laugh  and  go 
away  to  send  this  message  to  him,  '  The  braves  are 
sleeping  in  their  tipis.  They  are  too  lazy  to  fight  and 
too  cowardly.'  Meanwhile,  signal  fires  are  burning  in 
the  Indian  country,"  he  concluded,  significantly. 

"What  is  to  become  of  me,  Running  Bird?"  asked 
Katharine,  hopelessly.  The  disappointment  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

The  young  Indian  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  The  white  soldiers  are  already  on  the  march. 
They  are  headed  toward  the  mouth  of  the  Powder. 
They  are  coming  from  all  directions.  Our  scouts  know 
where  they  are  all  the  time.  Your  General  Terry  left 
Fort  Abraham  Lincoln  some  time  ago.  He  will  be  here 
soon,  and  so  will  that  insolent  General  Custer  who 
found  our  gold  and  who  is  much  to  blame  for  this  war. 
A  steamboat  is  coming  up  the  Yellowstone  with  supplies 
for  this  army.  The  Slender  Ash  and  the  Man-who- 

[342] 


CAMP     OF     THE     DAKOTAS 

would  n't-stay-in- jail  are  on  that  boat.  Perhaps  — 
hush  —  we  will  talk  again.  See,  the  people  from  the 
village  are  coming  down  to  the  shore.  They  have 
heard  that  a  stranger  has  arrived.  They  are  curious 
for  the  news.  They  must  not  know  that  I  am  your 
friend.  I  will  tell  them  that  you  used  to  see  me  once 
in  awhile  at  the  Agency  and  knew  that  I  could  talk 
English,  and  so  you  were  asking  me  questions  about 
your  people." 

He  subsided  into  low  guttural  exclamations  indicative 
of  a  desire  not  to  be  questioned  by  this  woman  of  the 
hated  enemy  and  turned  away,  leading  his  horse  up  the 
bank  to  meet  the  interested  groups  straggling  down 
from  the  village. 

"  Does  Running  Bird  go  to  join  Inkpaduta  and 
Black  Tomahawk  for  the  fighting? "  asked  White 
Flower,  casually,  as  he  passed  her. 

"  My  young  men  are  already  with  Black  Moon  and 
Gall,"  said  Running  Bird,  without  stopping.  "  I 
shall  join  them  soon  on  the  Little  Big  Horn." 

Now  Black  Moon  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of 
the  heathen  element.  A  little  smile  played  about  White 
Flower's  lips. 

"Yellow  Owl  has  gone  to  join  Black  Moon,  too," 
she  vouchsafed,  with  an  air  of  languid  indifference. 

"  So  ?  "  He  was  little  interested  in  the  medicine  man 
now. 

"  Yes,  and  Mad  Wolf  is  with  Yellow  Owl,"  she  con- 
cluded, carelessly,  and  went  on  braiding  grasses. 

[343] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHITE    FLOWER    MAKES    A    PROMISE 

£  4  T~100LISH,  foolish  White  Flower,  why  did  n't  you 
f/  come  and  talk  with  your  lover  before  all  those 
people  came?  "  chided  Katharine,  hastening  to  where 
the  Indian  girl  still  braided  her  grasses,  while  Running 
Bird  continued  his  journey  afoot  to  Inkpaduta's  vil- 
lage, surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  curious  Santees  and 
Yanktonais  who,  remnants  of  the  Outbreak,  had  gath- 
ered under  the  bloody  leadership  of  that  lawless  Wah- 
pekute. 

There  was  a  new  elasticity  in  her  step,  a  new  light  in 
her  eyes,  for,  though  Running  Bird  had  promised  noth- 
ing, he  was  Hugh  Hunt's  friend  —  and  the  Missionary 
and  Locke  Raynor  were  near;  they  had  never  given 
up  the  quest. 

White  Flower  vouchsafed  no  reply.  The  immobility 
of  her  countenance,  however,  did  not  necessarily  sig- 
nify tranquillity  of  thought.  In  truth,  her  wild  little 
heart  was  beating  time  to  a  wonderful  tune,  the  burden 
of  whose  glad  refrain  was  ever,  "  He  will  fight  with 
Black  Moon  —  he  has  come  back  to  us.  He  will  fight 
with  Black  Moon  —  he  has  come  back  to  us."  Min- 
gled with  her  triumph,  too,  was  some  condescending 

[344] 


A        PROMISE 

pity  for  this  white  girl,  an  unwilling  liking  for  whom, 
she  had  tried  so  hard  to  conceal.  It  was  the  Indian 
who  was  in  the  ascendency  now.  He  was  coming  into 
his  own  at  last.  Her  thoughts  went  even  farther  than 
pity.  With  a  new  and  strange  magnanimity  which 
would  have  been  impossible  to  her  hating  heart  before 
Katharine's  sojourn  in  Black  Tomahawk's  lodge,  she 
decided  that,  when  the  time  came,  she  would  save  her 
adopted  sister  from  death  —  if  she  could. 

From  girlish  raillery,  Katharine  passed  quickly  to 
a  passionate  appeal  for  help  to  escape.  Hitherto,  the 
thought  of  an  attempt  to  get  away  and  of  being  lost 
in  the  hostile  country  had  been  more  horrible  to  Kath- 
arine than  even  her  continued  and  enforced  residence 
among  Indians  where,  at  least,  she  had  powerful  pro- 
tection in  the  person  of  Black  Tomahawk.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  outlook  was  changed.  Somewhere  near  were 
her  friends.  The  knowledge  that  they  were  so  near  put 
her  into  a  fever  of  impatience  to  find  them  —  to  leave 
this  awful  place  at  once  and  forever  so  that  the  memory 
of  it  might  the  more  quickly  pass  into  that  receptacle 
of  the  mind  where  one  remembers  some  things  only  as 
one  does  bad  dreams.  She  confided  to  White  Flower 
everything  that  Running  Bird  had  said.  She  besought 
her  with  tears  in  her  eyes  to  use  her  influence  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  help;  but  White  Flower  expressed  herself 
not  at  all  upon  the  subject.  Depressed  and  discour- 
aged, Katharine  followed  the  Indian  girl  back  to  camp. 

A  number  of  young  warriors  of  the  village  had  just 
returned  from  the  hunt  with  fresh  buffalo  meat.  Smoke 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Woman  was  slicing  some  of  it  and  hanging  it  up  to 
dry  in  the  sun  on  lines  prepared  for  it  outside  the  tipi. 
Katharine  went  at  once  to  her  assistance.  She  should 
never  cease  being  grateful  to  the  chief  and  his  family 
for  rescuing  her  from  the  awful  horror  of  her  life  with 
Yellow  Owl.  Many  a  task,  she  voluntarily  assumed, 
thus  materially  lightening  Smoke  Woman's  labors ;  and 
one  had  only  to  watch  the  way  the  Indian  woman's  eyes 
followed  Katharine  about  in  her  graceful  and  grateful 
performance  of  these  menial  duties  to  know  how  con- 
tent Smoke  Woman  was  with  the  presence  of  this  white 
girl  in  the  lodge. 

That  evening,  shortly  after  dark,  while  Katharine 
was  dreaming  before  a  smouldering  fire  in  front  of  the 
tipi,  her  mind  teeming  with  the  possibilities  of  escape 
which  the  appearance  of  Running  Bird  had  suggested 
to  her,  she  was  startled  by  feeling  a  stealthy  hand  laid 
on  her  shoulder.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  in  terror,  the 
ever  present  fear  of  the  menacing  looks  of  certain  of 
Inkpaduta's  warriors  immediately  printing  upon  her 
brain  the  likeness  of  some  hideous  abductor.  It  was 
only  White,  Flower,  however.  Running  Bird  was 
standing  a  few  feet  away.  There  was  no  mistaking 
him,  in  spite  of  the  darkness.  He  stood  erect  and  mo- 
tionless, seemingly  self-absorbed.  So  had  he  appeared 
on  that  night  of  storm  when  he  came  to  conduct  the 
wayfarers  of  the  stranded  steamer  to  shelter;  and  hope 
set  Katharine's  heart  to  beating  wildly.  She  was  glad 
she  had  not  screamed.  If  she  had,  probably  Running 
Bird  would  have  glided  awav  into  the  darkness,  and  he 

[846] 


A        PROMISE 

might  have  found  no  other  opportunity  to  Kelp  her. 
She  must  try  never  to  scream  any  more  until  she  was 
safe  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  again.  She  must 
forget  nervousness,  fear,  and  weakness,  if  she  would 
have  the  aid  and  the  respect  of  her  Dakota  friends. 
Oh,  she  was  glad,  glad  that  she  had  not  cried  aloud ! 

White  Flower  was  alarmingly  unconcerned,  but  still 
Katharine  hoped  against  hope,  seeing  in  the  girl's  very 
naturalness  something  of  Indian  stealth  and  cunning 
which  might  hide  a  real  purpose.  Without  further 
notice  of  her,  White  Flower  strolled  carelessly  toward 
the  river  and  Katharine  followed  her  silently. 

It  was  a  warm,  heavily  sweet  June  night,  and  many 
Indians  lounged  without  their  tipis.  Here  and  there, 
spots  of  light  alternately  glowed  and  darkened  as  the 
men  smoked  dreamily  and  luxuriously.  For  the  most 
part,  the  village  was  quiet  —  not  yet  steeped  in  sleep, 
but  just  resting  as  if  prescient  of  the  great  unrest  which 
was  so  soon  to  sweep  over  the  hearts  and  minds  and 
actions  of  the  whole  turbulent  race  in  the  West.  No 
one  molested  the  girls  in  any  way  though  several 
watched  their  flitting  with  eyes  in  which  dwelt  silent 
speculation.  Not  one  was  afraid  because  White  Flower 
had  an  Indian  heart  and  all  knew  it.  By  and  by,  Kath- 
arine became  aware  that  some  one  was  following  them. 
She  could  not  keep  back  a  little  gasp  of  dread  though 
her  reason  told  her  that  it  must  be  Running  Bird.  It 
was  Running  Bird,  and  when  they  were  near  the  river, 
he  overtook  them  and  spoke  to  Katharine  in  English. 

"  The  Slender  Ash  is  my  friend,"  he  said,  abruptly. 
[347] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"The  Man-who-would  n't-stay-in- jail  is  his  friend,  and 
Sun-in-the-hair  is  the  Man-who-would  n't-stay-in- jail's 
friend,  and  I  am  Sun-in-the-hair's  friend,"  he  proceeded, 
gravely  polite,  "  so  we  are  all  friends.  It  is  like  a 
circle.  There  is  no  beginning  and  no  end." 

"  Unless  we  count  the  Slender  Ash  as  the  beginning 
and  the  end,"  said  Katharine,  in  a  low,  moved  voice. 
Running  Bird's  addressing  her  altogether  in  English 
warned  her  that  the  night  has  ears  in  the  hostile  Indian 
country,  and  she  fell  to  trembling  at  every  soft  chirp 
of  a  night-bird  or  the  rustling  through  the  grass  of 
some  thirsty  animal  —  a  dog  from  the  camp  maybe  — 
going  down  to  the  river  to  drink,  but  suggestive  of  a 
stealthy,  moccasined  foot.  "  How  well  you  have  named 
him !  Slender  of  body,  but  strong  of  soul !  I  pray 
that  I  may  be  forgiven  for  my  weakness  in  sometimes 
thinking  that  I  was  forgotten.  The  time  was  so  long, 
Running  Bird !  So  long !  But  I  ought  to  have  known 
that  the  Missionary  would  not  forget  me.  He  has  sent 
you  to  me  at  last.  I  thank  God !  " 

"  Neither  has  Man-who-would  n't-stay-in- jail  forgot- 
ten," said  Running  Bird,  significantly.  "  He  got  much 
thin  last  Summer.  Some  day  he  will  go  back  to  the  jail. 
He  not  live  long,  though.  He  think  all  the  time.  He 
will  die.  The  white  people  are  trying  to  drive  the 
Dakotas  from  the  earth.  That,  they  can  never  do. 
They  have  broken  the  Treaty,  as  they  broke  all  the 
others  in  their  turn,  and  have  laughed  out  loud  because 
we  are  so  easily  fooled.  That,  they  can  do  —  it  is  easy 
to  lie  —  but  they  will  be  much  sorry.  All  this  is  not 

[348] 


A        PROMISE 

the  fault  of  Slender  Ash,  Man-who-would  n't-stay-in- 
jail,  or  Sun-in-the-hair.  This  I  know.  Therefore, 
though  I  have  taken  the  war-path  against  the  Treaty- 
breakers,  I  will  first  help  these  friends  to  find  each 
other." 

"  Oh,  God  will  bless  you  for  this,  Running  Bird !  " 
cried  Katharine,  pressing  his  folded  hands  impulsively 
with  her  own  browned  ones. 

"  The  Government  boat  is  coming  up  the  Yellow- 
stone," continued  Running  Bird.  "  I  do  not  know  what 
are  the  plans  of  the  Slender  Ash  and  the  Man-who- 
would  n't-stay-in-j ail  after  this  boat  makes  its  junction 
with  the  army.  Maybe  they  will  follow  the  soldiers. 
Maybe  they  will  go  out  alone  somewhere.  If  they  go 
out  alone,  they  will  likely  die.  I  have  been  thinking 
much.  I  think  I  will  go  find  the  boat  now.  Last  Sum- 
mer, I  was  with  my  white  friends.  This  Summer,  I 
could  not  be  because  I  have  joined  the  war  party.  I 
have  found  you  when  I  was  not  looking  for  you. 
I  think  I  will  tell  them.  They  will  be  very  glad.  I  will 
find  the  boat." 

"  Won't  you  take  me  with  you  ?  "  whispered  Katha- 
rine, pleadingly. 

"  I  cannot.  They  are  watching  me  now.  They  are 
much  suspicious.  I  must  come  back  for  you  when  they 
do  not  know  that  J  am  around.  Sun-in-the-hair  will 
stay  and  help  White  Flower." 

"  How  can  I  help  her,  Running  Bird  ?  "  asked  Kath- 
arine, wonderingly. 

White  Flower  had  thrown  Herself  upon  the  ground 
[349] 


THE      SPIRIT      TRAIL; 

and  was  apparently  totally  uninterested  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

'*  Black  Tomahawk  has  promised  her  to  High  Dog,  a 
young  warrior  of  Inkpaduta's  camp.  High  Dog  gave 
him  many  fine  presents." 

"  But  Black  Tomahawk  has  always  liked  you  best  of 
all !  "  cried  Katharine,  astonished.  "  Now  that  you  are 
come  back,  he  will  be  glad  to  give  White  Flower  to 
you." 

"  He  has  promised  High  Dog,"  said  Running  Bird. 
Hidden  by  the  dark,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  savage  un- 
reconcilement  to  the  chief's  decree  and  determination  to 
circumvent  it.  "  White  Flower  told  him  she  would 
never  marry  me  because  I  was  a  friend  to  the  whites,  so 
he  promised  High  Dog.  He  is  bound.  High  Dog  has 
given  many  fine  presents.  Black  Tomahawk  does  not 
care  to  offend  him.  High  Dog  wants  White  Flower 
very  bad,  but  he  shall  never  have  her.  I  am  going  to 
fight  with  Black  Moon  and  Gall  and  all  those  brave 
Uncpapas,  so  White  Flower  has  promised  to  marry  me 
now.  When  I  have  found  the  boat,  I  will  come  back  for 
Sun-in-the-hair  and  White  Flower." 

"  I  will  try  to  keep  her  for  you,  Running  Bird,"  said 
Katharine,  softly  and  earnestly,  "  and,  oh,  you  won't 
forget  to  come  back,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  forget,"  said  Running  Bird. 

He  turned  back  toward  the  village.  He  must  get  his 
horse  and  be  off  at  once.  He  stood  a  moment  before  his 
wilful  sweetheart  without  speaking.  Katharine  coura- 
geously started  back  by  herself.  She  would  give 

[350] 


A        PROMISE 

them  their  farewell  alone.  If  she  walked  slowly,  it  was 
probable  that  White  Flower  would  soon  overtake  her. 
The  Indian  girl  arose  and  herself  stood  silent  before  her 
lover,  her  eyes  downcast.  ^ 

"  The  dance  weakness  is  all  past,"  said  Running  Bird, 
at  last,  in  low-voiced  Dakota.  "  I  shall  not  wait  for 
the  wind  to  blow  that  little  White  Flower  into  my  arms 
this  time.  I  am  so  strong  again  that  it  is  thus  I  will 
take  her,"  and  he  drew  her  unresisting  into  the  close 
clasp  of  his  longing  arms. 

"  I  wish  you  could  take  me  now,"  whispered  White 
Flower,  clinging  to  him.  "  I  am  afraid  of  the  Slender 
Ash.  He  will  take  you  from  me  again." 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Running  Bird,  caressingly. 
"  Nothing  or  no  one  can  take  you  from  me  now.  I 
have  thought  much  and  much  is  clear  to  me  at  last  that 
bothered  me  before.  When  I  fight  home-stealers  and 
land-grabbers  and  treaty-breakers,  I  know  now  that  I 
am  not  fighting  the  Slender  Ash  or  his  Man  on  the 
Cross.  They  are  not  the  same.  They  are  far  from 
being  the  same ;  so  I  shall  fight.  Oh,  little  White  Flower, 
little  White  Flower,  do  not  be  afraid,"  he  whispered, 
passionately,  bending  his  handsome  head  till  his  lips 
caressed  her  dark  hair.  "  It  is  all  clear  to  me  now. 
There  is  no  more  doubt.  I  know  what  it  is  best  for  me 
to  do.  First,  I  shall  come  back  for  you.  You  must 
keep  yourself  for  me,  little  one.  Promise  me  that  you 
will." 

"  I  promise,"  she  said,  softly. 

"  And  then  I  shall  go  with  our  people  and  drive  the 
[351] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

proud  and  greedy  invaders  out  of  our  land,  and  then 
—  and  then  — "  his  voice  breaking  with  its  happy 
burden  of  love  and  prophecy  and  the  joyous  relief 
which  follows  decision  after  uncertainty,  "  my  lodge  will 
not  be  empty  any  more.  It  will  sing  for  joy." 

Presently,  he  released  her,  and  she  returned  to  the 
village  with  Katharine. 

A  few  days  later,  early  in  the  evening,  Katharine 
observed  signs  of  excitement  in  camp.  It  seemed  to 
pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Almost  the  entire  popula- 
tion was  outside  the  tipis.  New  wood  had  been  heaped 
high  upon  dying  fires  until  the  flames  were  leaping  sky- 
ward, and  the  whole  village  was  alight.  There  was 
much  talking.  Even  the  dogs  seemed  to  have  caught 
the  general  infection  and  were  answering  each  other 
from  far  and  near  in  fatuous  baying.  It  was  not  long 
before  she  understood  the  cause  of  the  commotion.  The 
heralds  were  going  the  rounds  of  the  village  proclaiming 
that  at  daylight  the  camp  would  take  up  its  march  to 
join  the  forces  gathering  for  war.  Running  Bird's 
message  from  Black  Moon  had  evidently  precipitated  the 
move.  The  time  was  at  hand  to  put  in  motion  the  great- 
est concentrated  force  in  the  history  of  the  Dakota 
nation. 

Meanwhile,  the  Far  West,  chartered  by  the  Govern- 
ment to  carry  supplies  for  the  armies  on  the  march,  had 
climbed  the  Yellowstone  River  to  Stanley's  Stockade. 
On  board  were  the  Missionary  and  Locke  Raynor,  work- 
ing as  common  hands,  messing  with  the  crew.  Only  so 
had  they  been  able  to  obtain  passage  on  the  boat,  and 

[352] 


A        PROMISE 

yet  travel  incognito,  as  they  must  do  for  Locke's  sake. 
The  captain  alone  knew  their  secret  and  their  mission, 
and  he  had  consented  to  the  arrangement  for  Hugh 
Hunt's  sake.  They  were  compelled  to  rely  upon  them- 
selves and  their  own  ingenuity  now  that  Running  Bird 
had  identified  himself  with  the  war  party.  A  rumor 
among  the  Indians  on  the  Reservation  that  Spring  to 
the  effect  that  Katharine  Mendenhall  was  known  by- 
different  ones  to  be  with  the  hostiles  in  the  Powder 
River  country  had  determined  them  to  trust  themselves 
in  the  wilderness  alone.  What  they  should  do  when 
the  boat  reached  the  end  of  its  prescribed  journey,  they 
had  not  as  yet  decided.  They  only  knew  that  they] 
should  go  on  somehow,  someway,  somewhere.  Both 
faced  the  exceeding  likelihood  of  never  returning,  but 
they  faced  it  unflinchingly,  calm  in  the  absolute  in- 
evitability —  as  they  looked  at  it  —  of  the  only  course 
which  was  now  theirs  to  pursue. 

If  Locke  Raynor  ever  thought,  as  he  had  once  or 
twice  in  the  old  days,  that  the  Missionary  loved  Katha- 
rine Mendenhall  and  therefore  his  untiring  efforts  in 
her  behalf  might  not  be  altogether  so  disinterested  as 
they  seemed,  he  dismissed  the  thought  as  unworthy ;  but 
he  could  not  help  wondering,  as  he  had  often  wondered 
before,  when  he  saw  the  serenity  with  which  the  Mis- 
sionary bent  his  slight  frame  to  the  toil  on  the  boat,  or 
threw  himself  on  his  rough  bunk  at  night,  grimy  from 
constant  contact  with  the  machinery,  and  so  tired  that 
he  had  only  time  to  smile  cheerily  up  at  his  fellow- 
laborer  before  dropping  off  into  heavy  slumber.  He 
*3  353 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

did  not  know  that  Hugh  Hunt  had  asked  and  answered 
for  himself  long  ago  this  question :  "  Is  there  anything 
to  keep  me  from  following  Running  Bird  into  the 
Powder  River  country  again?  " 

They  lay  over  at  Stanley's  Stockade  several  days. 
While  there,  a  messenger  came  from  General  Terry  with 
instructions  for  the  steamer  to  move  up  the  Yellowstone 
and  make  a  junction  with  the  troops  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Powder.  On  the  seventh  day  of  June,  the  Far  West 
tied  to  the  bank  of  that  river. 


[354] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

KATHARINE    AND    LOCKE 

MUCH  disturbed  by  the  announcement  of  the- 
heralds,  fearful  that  her  friends  would  not  be 
able  to  tuace  the  moving  camp  or  to  follow  it  into  the 
heart  of  the  war  district  whither  it  was  tending,  Katha- 
rine crept  into  the  temporarily  deserted  lodge  to  indulge 
in  the  gloomiest  forebodings  which  had  been  hers  since 
she  had  been  removed  from  Yellow  Owl's  guardianship. 
Here  White  Flower  found  her.  The  rest  of  the  family 
were  out  somewhere  joining  in  the  revels  with  which  the 
village  was  celebrating  the  welcome  order  to  march. 
White  Flower's  eyes  were  full  of  angry  tears,  and  there 
was  a  frightened  look  on  her  face. 

"  High  Dog  is  coming  for  me  in  the  morning,"  she 
said,  forgetting  all  enmity  in  her  knowledge  that  Kath- 
arine's sympathy  was  with  her  and  Running  Bird. 
"  My  father  thinks  Running  Bird  will  not  come  back. 
He  says  I  would  not  take  him  when  I  could  and  that  now 
it  is  too  late.  He  will  wait  for  him  no  longer.  High 
Dog  gave  him  many  fine  presents,  and  so  I  must  go  to 
High  Dog.  My  father  is  much  changed  since  we  left 
the  Agency.  High  Dog  says  he  wants  me  now  so  that 
if  he  is  killed  in  the  war,  there  will  be  some  one  to  mourn 

[355] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

for  him.  Oh,"  she  interrupted  herself,  with  a  scornful 
stamp  of  her  foot,  "  he  is  of  a  very  great  and  powerful 
family  —  there  will  be  plenty  to  mourn  for  him.  I,  too, 
gave  a  promise,  as  well  as  my  father.  I  promised  Run- 
ning Bird.  I  will  not  go  to  High  Dog's  lodge  or  travel 
with  him  and  his  relatives  to-morrow.  He  can  mourn 
for  himself  if  he  can  find  no  one  else  to  do  it  for  him. 
I  am  going  to  run  away." 

"  When  ?  "  asked  Katharine,  not  in  the  least  believing 
her. 

"  To-night,"  said  White  Flower,  resolutely.  "  Run- 
ning Bird  is  hunting  for  the  boat  somewhere  between 
the  mouth  of  the  Powder  and  the  mouth  of  the  Yellow- 
stone. I  can  find  him.  I  promised  I  would  keep  myself 
for  him.  There  are  many  who  would  be  very  glad  to 
go  to  High  Dog's  lodge.  Let  him  choose  one  of  those. 
You  are  good.  You  are  kind  to  the  Dakotas.  You 
are  Running  Bird's  friend.  You  have  not  laughed  at 
me  because  I  am  an  Indian.  You  have  taught  me  many 
things.  It  is  on  account  of  all  these  things  that,  when 
we  have  found  your  brave  and  his  friend,  we  will  come 
back  for  you.  I  would  not  have  done  this  for  you  at 
first,  but  now,  I  have  changed  my  mind.  Your  medicine 
was  good.  At  first,  I  was  afraid ;  but  now,  I  know  that 
it  was  good.  I  am  grateful.  Do  not  tell  anybody  that 
I  told  you  I  was  going  away.  It  will  be  better  for  you 
if  no  one  knows." 

It  was  late  when  White  Flower  rose  from  her  couch 
.and  stole  from  the  tent.  Outside,  in  the  brush,  she  had 
hidden  her  pack,  consisting  principally  of  a  small  robe 

[356] 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

and  a  bundle  of  dried  meat.  Slinging  this  across  her 
shoulder,  she  was  on  the  point  of  moving  cautiously  off  ^ 
when  she  was  startled  by  seeing  the  figure  of  Katharine 
rise  up  before  her  in  the  pale  starlight. 

"  Hush,  not  a  word !  "  warned  Katharine.  "  I  am 
going  with  you.  It  would  be  found  out  someway  that 
I  knew  about  you  going.  High  Dog  will  be  hot  for 
revenge  for  this  affront.  Running  Bird  will  be  sus- 
pected at  once,  and,  if  I  stayed,  I  should  be  put  to 
death  before  ever  he  had  a  chance  to  come  back.  Don't 
try  to  prevent  me,  White  Flower,  just  lead  the  way !  " 

"  They  will  kill  you  if  they  catch  us,"  said  White 
Flower  solemnly.  "  You  had  much  better  wait  till  your 
man  comes  for  you." 

"  He  could  never  find  me  now  that  the  camp  is  going 
to  move.  How  would  he  dare  come  farther?  Oh,  do 
come  away  before  we  are  missed !  " 

The  Indian  girl  plainly  hesitated.  From  the  farthest 
confines  of  the  village  came  the  sound  of  weird  music 
and  dancing,  and  of  strange  yelps  and  cries,  where  a, 
group  of  war-crazed  bucks  were  still  celebrating  in 
honor  of  the  coming  strife.  The  very  hysteria  of  war 
was  upon  them.  The  spirit  of  it  had  permeated  every 
nook  and  corner  of  the  unceded  territory,  and  the  call 
to  move  forward  was  as  torch  to  powder.  The  madness 
broke  out  in  many  celebrations,  in  much  dancing,  and 
in  a  frenzy  of  boastings.  Fevered  as  were  the  warriors 
of  Inkpaduta's  camp  by  the  prospect  of  war,  could 
Black  Tomahawk  hope  always  to  hold  this  white  prisoner 
from  their  fury?  But  what  mattered  it  to  White 

[357] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Flower  if  Katharine  thus  fell  a  victim  to  the  righteous 
up-rising  of  the  Dakotas?  Moreover,  there  was  as 
much  danger  in  going  as  in  staying,  and  the  tenderfoot 
would  sadly  hamper  White  Flower  in  her  own  efforts  to 
get  away.  Her  mind  was  torn  with  conflicting  thoughts 
and  emotions;  and,  in  the  end,  she  said  nothing,  made 
no  decision.  She  simply  turned  and  glided  away  into 
the  darkness  in  the  direction  farthest  removed  from  the 
revellers;  and  Katharine,  with  a  little  catch  in  her 
breath,  but  fully  determined,  followed  her. 

They  walked  or  ran  all  night.  Dawn  found  Katha- 
rine footsore  and  spent  with  fatigue.  Without  the 
rigorous  training  of  her  life  among  the  Dakotas,  she 
must  have  fallen  by  the  way  long  since.  If  White 
Flower  was  wearied,  she  made  no  mention  of  it.  They 
concealed  themselves  in  a  thicket,  ate  sparingly  of  the 
dried  meat,  and  lay  down  for  a  little  rest.  It  was  not 
for  long.  A  great  dread  inspired  Katharine  with 
powers  of  endurance  which  astonished  her  even  in  the 
strain  of  her  fears  and  which,  under  happier  circum- 
stances, she  never  could  have  maintained.  They  made 
steadily  for  the  mouth  of  the  Powder,  hugging  the 
timber  to  blind  the  sight  of  pursuers.  Briers  pricked 
and  tore  and  caught  at  the  fringe  of  their  antelope-skin 
garments.  Warned  by  the  Indian  girl,  Katharine  was 
careful  to  leave  no  frayed  fragment  behind  to  give 
evidence  of  the  course  which  they  had  pursued.  Fallen 
trees  tripped  her,  and  many  times  she  fell  prostrate, 
only  to  pick  herself  up  and  blindly  follow  White  Flower 
who  was  relentless  in  maintaining  her  rapid  and  unerring 

[358] 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

way  toward  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Stones  bruised  her 
moccasined  feet  and  gave  her  much  pain,  but  she  bit 
her  lip  desperately  and  pressed  on.  Sometimes  they 
were  compelled  to  cross  a  patch  of  sun-blistered  prairie, 
and  then  how  the  heat  bit  and  stung,  and  how  her  heart 
was  in  her  throat  all  the  way  until  the  friendly  gloom 
of  the  timber  received  them  once  more  in  its  kindly 
embrace!  White  Flower  never  trusted  herself  to  the 
open  without  first  reconnoitring  with  all  the  cunning 
of  her  race,  and  the  action  never  failed  to  bring  vividly 
to  Katharine's  mind  the  awfulness  of  what  the  sight 
of  pursuers  would  be.  But  White  Flower  never  once 
stopped  to  encourage  or  to  question,  and  Katharine 
needed  a  little  help  —  oh,  how  she  needed  a  little  help ! 
She  was  so  alone  and  so  helpless.  It  might  have  been 
better  had  she  remained  with  Black  Tomahawk.  But 
no!  She  shuddered,  hearing  again  in  imagination  the 
blood-curdling  sounds  which  had  issued  from  the  in- 
closure  where  many  savages  were  keeping  horrible  vigil, 
and  rallied  her  oozing  courage  to  stumble  on. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day  they  discerned  a  small 
group  of  horsemen  off  to  the  right.  Fortunately,  the 
girls  were  in  the  timber  when  they  espied  the  terrifying 
spectacle,  and  they  crept  in  among  a  thick  growth  of 
brush  and  waited  with  bated  breath  and  wildly  beating 
hearts.  White  Flower's  Indian  eyes  had  recognized  the 
distant  riders  as  her  own  kinsmen.  Was  it  possible 
that,  in  their  eagerness  to  join  the  other  war  parties, 
Inkpaduta's  fierce  warriors  had  been  content  to  leave 
the  pursuit  to  Black  Tomahawk's  own  people,  trusting 

[359] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

them  to  bring  back  the  rebellious  women  and  to  over- 
take the  camp  on  its  westward  march?  Her  savage 
courage  kept  Katharine  from  fainting,  even  while  the 
white  girl  recognized  the  fact  that  her  situation  and 
White  Flower's  were  altogether  different.  Death  was 
not  staring  White  Flower  in  the  face.  Capture  would 
mean  for  her  only  —  High  Dog's  lodge,  if  he  would 
have  her  after  this;  but  for  Katharine,  surely,  it  would 
mean  the  end.  If  only  the  soldiers  marching  from  Fort 
Abraham  Lincoln  would  hasten  and  engage  all  the 
Indians  in  battle  right  away  so  they  could  find  no  time 
to  think  of  the  runaways!  Vain  wish!  Many  days 
must  elapse  before  the  blessed  sound  of  marching  men 
and  the  trot  of  cavalry  would  echo  on  that  terror- 
haunted  land,  or  the  glorious  glimpse  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  make  fair  and  comforting  all  the  dread  land- 
scape. Oh,  something  was  wrong  somewhere,  as  Hugh 
Hunt  had  said,  but  it  was  not  the  soldiers  of  the  most 
fearless,  the  most  stainless,  and  the  fairest  flag  that  ever 
floated  over  the  portals  of  native  land!  If  they  could 
only  come  now ! 

The  girls  dared  take  no  chances.  They  lay  in  their 
hiding-place,  scarcely  breathing,  until  night  once  more 
covered  their  movements.  During  all  that  time,  they 
heard  no  sound  other  than  that  of  the  rushing  river,, 
the  light  snapping  of  twigs  as  birds  hopped  hither 
and  thither  in  the  branches  of  the  trees,  the  soft 
rustling  of  a  snake  through  the  grass,  and  once  a  coyote 
slunk  down  to  drink,  unconscious  of  human  presence 
so  still  were  they.  When  it  was  quite  dark,  they  came 

[360] 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

from  their  place  of  concealment  and  pressed  forward 
with  little  rest  all  that  night. 

On  the  second  day  after  Black  Tomahawk's  unsuc- 
cessful scout,  a  little  past  noon,  themselves  unseen,  they 
beheld  three  horsemen  coming  from  the  north.  Though 
they  were  constantly  on  the  lookout  for  their  friends, 
at  this  distance  they  were  unable  to  determine  whether 
the  approaching  riders  were  Indians  or  white  men. 
They  dropped  down  behind  the  bank  and  waited. 
When  the  newcomers  were  close  enough  for  indentifi- 
cation,  and  when  Katharine  saw  who  they  really  were, 
she  had  not  a  word  to  say.  She  had  not  dared  to  hope, 
and  now  she  was  afraid  that  she  would  wake  up  and 
find  it  just  a  dream,  as  she  had  all  those  other  times 
when  she  dreamed  these  men  to  her  rescue.  She  stood 
up  unsteadily,  but  she  made  no  movement  forward. 
Her  poor,  pinched,  brown  face,  once  so  fair  and  so 
delicately  colored,  held  an  appealing  expression  of  un- 
belief. 

And  Locke?  "At  last,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
That  was  all.  There  was  no  other  word  of  greeting  — 
just,  "At  last!"  He  could  never  remember  dismount- 
ing, but  he  never  forgot  the  moment  when  he  took  Kath- 
arine Mendenhall  in  his  arms.  He  had  waited  very 
long  —  his  disappointments  had  been  very  many  and 
very  bitter.  He  held  her  close.  His  cheek  rested  upon 
her  soft  hair,  she  lay  against  his  breast,  spent  with  the 
long  journey  but  home  at  last.  For  him  there  was 
nothing  else  in  all  the  world  just  then,  neither  time  nor 
eternity,  friendly  nor  hostile,  justice  nor  injustice,  no 

[861] 


THE      SPIRIT      TRAIL; 

dread  sentence  of  death,  no  prison  house,  no  sacred 
word  of  honor ;  there  was  only  this  girl,  dearer  than  life 
or  a  thousand  lives  —  his  mate  whom  he  had  lost  for  a 
bitter  while,  and  whom  he  had  found  again.  His  lips 
caressed  her  hair ;  and  then  at  last,  very  gently,  he  lifted 
her  face  and  kissed  her  sweet  and  trembling  mouth.  It 
was  then  she  broke  down  and  wept  softly  for  all  her 
trouble  ended. 

Presently,  the  reunited  friends  held  council  together, 
and  it  was  decided  to  proceed  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Powder  as  rapidly  as  possible,  hoping  to  find  the  Far 
West  still  there.  The  captain  had  promised  them  a 
small  boat  in  which,  under  cover  of  night,  hiding  by 
day,  they  would  drift  down  the  Yellowstone  to  the 
Missouri,  and  then  down  the  Missouri  to  Big  Bend, 
unless  they  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  a  down- 
going  steamer  at  some  one  of  the  forts.  Katharine  and 
White  Flower  rode,  Running  Bird  scouted  a  little  ahead, 
while  Hugh  and  Locke  walked  beside  the  girls,  leading 
the  third  horse  to  which  they  had  transferred  all  the 
camp  outfit  belonging  to  both  parties. 

That  evening  they  camped  at  a  small  creek  which 
emptied  into  the  river.  In  spite  of  the  greater  safety 
of  travelling  after  dark,  they  decided  to  spend  the  night 
here.  One  look  into  Katharine  Mendenhall's  white  face 
had  convinced  Locke  of  the  impracticability  of  pro- 
ceeding farther  without  rest. 

After  supper,  prepared  by  Locke  and  the  Missionary, 
and  peculiarly  appetizing  to  Katharine  as  the  first  white 
cooking  she  had  tasted  in  many  months,  Locke  and 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

Katharine  strolled  a  little  way  up  the  river.  It  was 
just  getting  dusk.  Running  Bird,  carefully  covering 
the  fire,  looked  after  them  thoughtfully  but  said  noth- 
ing. They  had  much  to  say  to  each  other,  these  two. 
They  forgot  time  and  place.  Locke  walked  with  his 
arm  close  around  her.  She  was  very  tired,  and  it  was 
a  long,  weary  while  since  she  had  had  some  one  to  lean 
upon,  to  be  responsible  for  her,  to  tell  her  what  to  do, 
to  love  her;  and  how  she  had  needed  some  one! 

"  Yes,"  said  Locke,  after  a  while,  in  answer  to  a 
question  she  had  asked,  "  just  as  soon  as  I  see  you  safe 
in  your  father's  house,  back  I  must  go  to  jail — but  I 
trust  it  will  not  be  for  long,"  he  added,  quickly,  seeing 
her  sudden  stricken  look. 

"  But  the  —  verdict,"  she  whispered,  chokingly. 

"  Oh,  but  I  'm  to  have  a  new  trial,  you  know,"  he 
said,  cheerfully. 

"  Locke,"  said  Katharine,  choking  back  her  sobs  and 
speaking  firmly,  while  her  eyes  looked  unfalteringly 
into  his,  "  I  have  learned  many  things  in  these  more 
than  fifteen  months  with  the  Indians.  One  of  the  things 
is,  that  I  do  not  believe  one  is  called  upon  to  endure  that 
injustice  which  means  the  cutting  off  of  one's  existence 
just  because  those,  in  whose  hands  it  is  to  mete  out 
the  justice  of  the  world,  have  seen  through  a  glass, 
darkly.  If  the  Dakotas  had  submitted  to  this  lawless 
confiscation  which  we  are  trying  to  force  upon  them, 
that  is  what  it  would  mean  for  them.  They  have  a 
right  to  resist  it.  And  if  you  go  back  —  when  you 
never  did  it  —  oh,  Locke,"  her  voice  broke  in  spite  of 

[363] 


(THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

herself,  "  I  am  afraid  that  is  what  it  will  mean  for 
you.  I  think  you  have  a  right  not  to  go  back." 

He  shook  his  head  smilingly. 

"  Locke,"  she  said,  steadily,  "  if  you  will  stay  lost  on 
the  Reservation,  I  will  stay  with  you." 

"  You  —  you  —  don't  mean  that,"  said  Locke,  in  a 
shaking  voice.  Never  to  be  parted  from  her  again! 
To  be  with  her  forever  and  forever!  Oh,  if  he  only 
could !  "  Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,  you  don't  mean 
it!  You  must  not  tempt  me.  I  cannot  stay.  I 
promised  myself  when  I  took  my  own  parole.  But  I  will 
come  back  for  you,  my  girl.  It  will  not  be  long." 

He  kissed  her  hair,  her  eyes,  and  her  lips,  a  little 
blindly,  while  she  clung  to  him  tremulously. 

When  at  last  he  looked  up,  the  dusk  had  thickened. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  that  they  must  have  come  some 
distance  from  camp.  The  lay  of  the  land  was  different 
and  there  was  open  country  to  their  left,  across  the 
river. 

"  We  must  go  back  at  once,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  I 
was  a  brute  to  bring  you  so  far,  when  you  are  so  tired. 
We  must  have  strayed  half  a  mile." 

As  they  turned  to  retrace  their  steps,  Locke  glanced 
casually  toward  that  stretch  of  open  country ;  and  then 
something  cold  and  clammy  seemed  to  fasten  upon  his 
heart.  Not  for  his  own  sake.  In  that  awful  moment, 
his  one  thought  was  for  the  girl  who,  through  such 
trial  and  vicissitude  as  he  could  not  think  upon  without 
the  smarting  tears  coming  into  his  eyes,  had  come  to 

[364] 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

him  for  haven,  and  he  had  not  been  worthy  the  trust. 
He  had  brought  her  to  this !  For  a  moment,  his  brain 
reeled,  and  he  was  incapable  of  connected  thought  or 
action.  The  whole  West  seemed  swarming  with  In- 
dians, and  it  was  not  so  dark  but  that  he  could  plainly 
see  from  their  actions  that  the  mounted  band  had 
discovered  their  presence.  The  foremost  of  the  Indians 
seemed  to  consult  together  for  a  moment,  and  then 
the  whole,  hideous  crew  bore  down  upon  them,  brandish- 
ing rifles,  racing  their  ponies  wildly.  It  was  evident 
that  the  savages  saw  no  need  of  caution,  of  reconnoi- 
tring, of  slipping  up  to  lie  in  ambush.  One  man  and 
one  woman  standing  helplessly  before  the  onslaught 
was  not  good  proof  of  an  army  back  of  them;  and, 
besides,  scouts  doubtless  kept  all  war  parties  constantly 
informed  as  to  the  exact  locations  of  the  different  ad- 
vancing armies.  Oh,  for  Running  Bird's  influence  now ! 
Oh,  for  the  safety  of  the  hidden  camp  in  the  thicket, 
too  far  removed  for  any  hope  of  help!  Better,  far 
better,  for  Katharine,  had  she  never  left  the  friendly 
Yanktonais  chief,  only  to  fall  into  a  snare  like  this, 
because  he,  Locke  Raynor,  was  a  fool !  "  Oh,"  he 
groaned,  "must  she  die  on  account  of  me?"  Katha- 
rine was  staring  at  him  with  wide,  terror-stricken  eyes. 
Every  vestige  of  color  had  left  her  face.  Her  absolute 
helplessness  steadied  him  then  and  drove  the  horror  and 
momentary  indecision  from  his  brain. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  firmly,  leading  her  quickly  back 
into  the  timber,  out  of  sight  of  the  Indians,  "  there  is 

[365] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

one  chance.  It  is  a  slim  one  but  we  must  take  it.  Ask 
no  questions.  Do  just  as  I  tell  you.  No  matter  what 
it  is,  do  it!  Do  you  understand?  " 

At  this  point,  the  banks  on  both  sides  of  the  river 
were  steep.  He  helped  her  down  to  the  water's  edge. 
About  fifty  feet  from  the  shore  were  a  number  of  black- 
looking  rocks  rising  above  the  surface  of  the  water. 
From  the  appearance  of  the  water  as  it  ran  past  these 
stones,  Locke  judged  that  it  was  comparatively  shallow 
at  that  place. 

"  We  must  reach  tLose  rocks,"  he  said,  so  decidedly, 
that,  for  the  first  time,  Katharine  felt  a  faint  hope 
stirring  within  her.  "  First,  I  must  have  your  promise 
not  to  hang  back  at  anything  I  say.  What  we  do,  we 
must  do  at  once.  Otherwise,  we  are  lost.  Whatever 
I  say,  do !  Promise !  " 

She  nodded  dumbly. 

It  was  a  terrible  risk  —  a  criminal  one,  had  not  any- 
thing been  better  than  that  Katharine  should  fall  into 
the  hands  of  war-maddened  Sioux.  He  realized  that, 
if  the  water  was  too  deep  to  wade  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  distance,  the  current  being  so  swift,  he  might  not 
be  able  to  swim  so  far  with  her,  weighted  down  as  they 
both  would  be  with  their  clothing.  There  was  no  other 
way,  however.  He  had  given  up  lashing  himself  for 
his  foolhardiness.  He  dared  not  waste  thought  or 
energy  on  anything  which  would  not  count  for  them 
then. 

"  I  will  save  you  if  I  can,"  he  whispered,  gently,  hold- 
ing her  close  a  moment.  "  Trust  me,  my  darling.  If 

[366] 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

it  is  not  to  be,  it  is  good  to  go  together.  But  trust 
me,  little  girl,  only  trust  me.  I  think  I  can  save  you 
yet." 

When  he  kissed  her,  both  knew  that  the  chances  were 
the  other  way,  and  that  the  kiss  was  the  seal  of  a  solemn 
good-bye. 

"  Good-bye,"  whispered  Katharine,  with  the  saddest 
of  sad  little  smiles.  "  Don't  let  them  get  me,  Locke. 
Remember  —  to  let  me  drown." 

"  They  shall  never  get  you  alive,"  said  Locke,  quietly. 

He  stooped  at  the  brink  and  gathered  up  a  handful 
of  black,  sticky  mud.  This  he  quickly  smeared  over 
his  face,  stooped  for  more,  and  subjected  Katharine's 
to  the  same  treatment.  Then  he  led  her  into  the  stream. 
She  did  not  hesitate  but  bravely  waded  in.  She  trusted 
him  implicitly.  She  meant  to  obey  him  absolutely. 
The  water  grew  rapidly  deeper.  When  it  swirled  about 
her  waist,  she  could  not  repress  a  gasp  of  shivering 
dread,  but  she  struggled  on  desperately,  clinging  to 
Locke.  When  they  were  half-way  across,  the  water 
came  to  her  chin,  and  in  her  eyes  were  despair  and 
death;  but  Locke  lifted  her  from  her  feet  and  held  her 
up  until  it  became  too  deep  even  for  him.  Then,  he 
struck  out  vigorously  with  his  free  hand.  Soon,  letting 
his  feet  down  once  more,  he  found,  to  his  unbounded 
relief,  that  he  could  touch  bottom. 

Gradually,  the  water  grew  more  and  more  shallow. 
Reaching  the  rocks  at  last  and  feeling  around  until  he 
found  a  depth  to  suit  his  purpose,  he  ordered  Katharine 
to  sit  down.  She  did  so,  too  dazed  to  wonder,  bent  only 

[367] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL' 

on  listening  for  that  quiet,  strong,  self-reliant  voice, 
and  keeping  herself  strong  enough  to  understand  it  and 
to  obey  it.  He  sat  down  beside  her.  Seated  so,  the 
water  gurgled  around  their  necks.  They  were  facing 
down-stream. 

"  Now,  lean  back  on  your  hands,"  he  commanded. 
"  Throw  your  head  back  so.  Leave  only  enough  of  your 
face  exposed  to  allow  you  to  breathe.  Farther,  my 
girl!  Don't  be  afraid  of  the  water.  It  is  our  salva- 
tion. Like  this  —  do  just  like  this,  dear,"  he  said, 
throwing  himself  back  as  he  had  told  her  to  do.  "  I 
don't  believe  they  will  ever  see  us,  if  we  can  only  hold 
out.  It  is  getting  pretty  dark  now.  Our  faces  in  the 
twilight  will  look  just  like  the  rocks.  We  are  sunken 
rocks,  little  girl,  we  must  act  the  part." 

"  It 's  —  it 's  so  cold,"  said  Katharine,  with  chattering 
teeth. 

"  It  won't  be  long  now,"  whispered  Locke,  en- 
couragingly. 

Except  for  the  soft  gliding  and  purling  of  the 
water,  the  evening  was  very  still.  They  could  plainly 
hear  the  Indians  rapidly  approaching  the  west  bank. 
From  the  sounds  carried  to  them  so  distinctly,  it  seemed 
to  Locke  that  the  redskins  must  have  halted  directly 
opposite  them,  and  for  a  moment,  his  heart  almost 
stopped  beating.  The  voices  were  so  loud  and  clear. 
Surely,  the  Indians  must  be  looking  right  down  at  them. 
He  had  done  a  very  foolish  thing  in  thinking  that  he 
might  hide  from  them  in  this  way.  In  a  few  moments, 
the  savages  began  racing  up  and  down  the  bank.  This 

[368] 


KATHARINE       AND       LOCKE 

continued  for  some  time,  the  pound  of  the  pomes'  hoofs 
coming  to  those  in  hiding  heart-clutchingly  clear  and 
defined  over  the  water  and  in  the  evening  quiet.  Finally, 
there  was  a  mighty  splashing,  and  Locke  concluded 
that  the  Indians  were  crossing  a  little  way  above  them. 
Soon,  it  seemed  that  most  of  them  were  on  the  east  side 
and  were  racing  up  and  down  that  bank.  They  were 
much  nearer  now,  and  he  knew  that  the  critical  time  had 
come.  The  water  swishing  around  the  stones  made 
considerable  noise,  and  he  began  to  whisper  encouraging 
words  to  Katharine.  Her  teeth  were  chattering  with 
the  cold,  and  her  poor  little  face  under  its  daub  of  dirt 
looked  blue  and  pinched.  His  heart  ached  to  see  her 
so,  and  he  ground  his  teeth  in  real  rage  to  think  that 
he  was  powerless  to  help  her. 

"  Locke,"  she  said,  very  faintly,  "  I  'm  afraid  it 's 
good-bye,  at  last.  I  —  can't  hold  out  much  longer.  I 
am  so  tired.  When  I  give  up,  don't  try  to  save  me. 
Remember,  we  should  only  both  lose  our  lives  then  — 
and  —  you  know  —  I  must  n't  be  taken  by  the  Indians. 
You  must  remember,  Locke,  for  I  shall  give  up  pretty 
soon  now." 

"  Wait  just  a  little  longer,  dear,  please,"  he  pleaded. 
"  It  is  almost  dark  enough  now  for  us  to  risk  sitting 
up  straight.  I  think  they  will  give  up  the  search  soon. 
They  do  not  seem  to  have  been  attracted  to  these  rocks 
at  all.  Don't  give  up,  little  girl,  not  yet  —  Katha- 
rine! "  he  ended,  sharply,  for  the  little  head  had  sunk 
beneath  the  murmuring  water. 

He  caught  her  strongly  with  one  arm,  remembering 
24  [  369  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

caution  even  then  when  he  thought  that  all  was  lost, 
forced  her  into  a  sitting  posture  and  held  her  firmly  to 
his  side.  She  strangled  a  little  but  that  was  all.  It 
might  well  have  seemed  only  the  water  murmuring  around 
the  rocks. 

Gradually,  all  sound  died  away,  other  than  this  soft 
gliding  of  the  river,  the  coo  of  a  dove,  the  distant  cry 
of  a  wolf.  It  grew  quite  dark.  The  wild  riders  had 
dispersed,  leaving  a  silence  so  profound  that  it  was  like 
a  heaviness.  Were  they  altogether  gone,  or  were  those 
black,  mysterious  woods  and  banks  peopled  with  a  still, 
waiting  company?  "My  merciful  God,  if  I  only 
knew ! "  was  the  cry  of  Locke's  soul.  An  hour  passed 
away  —  two  hours.  Nothing  happened  but  denser  dark- 
ness, denser  stillness.  It  was  easier  sitting  straight ;  but 
as  Locke  felt  the  paralyzing  chill  creeping  over  him  more 
and  more,  he  thought  much  of  Katharine's  silent  suffer- 
ing. He  was  afraid  she  would  die  of  the  terrible  chill. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  His  limbs  were  so  stiff  that  he 
staggered,  and  Katharine  was  a  dead  weight  in  his 
arms ;  but  she  smiled  and  whispered,  "  I  tried  to  mind 
you,"  and  he  thanked  God  that  she  still  lived.  He 
rubbed  his  arms  and  legs  softly  until  life  came  back  to 
them. 

"  Hold  me  so,  dear,"  he  said,  then,  putting  her  arm 
around  his  shoulders.  "I  am  going  to  take  you  to 
shore  now." 

Though  the  shadows  seemed  haunted  to  their 
imaginations,  the  night  remained  serene  and  undisturbed 
as  they  climbed  the  bank. 

[370] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

RUNNING   BIRD    COMES   INTO    HIS    OWN    AT    LAST 

fTlHEY  met  Running  Bird  coming  to  meet  thenu 
i  He  asked  no  questions,  and  his  silence  expressed 
grave  disapproval.  It  was  only  after  Locke  had  ex- 
plained the  reason  of  their  long  absence  that  the  Indian 
unbent  sufficiently  to  speak ;  and  then  all  he  said  was : 

"  I  think  the  Man-who-would  n't  stay-in- jail  had  bet- 
ter stay  there  next  time.  It  would  be  safer  for  him 
and  for  Sun-in-the-hair." 

The  sarcasm  was  obvious.  It  hurt,  and  Locke  again 
began  bitterly  to  condemn  his  thoughtlessness.  A 
gentle  pressure  on  his  arm  stayed  him. 

"  Please  don't,"  whispered  Katharine.  "  After  what 
you  did,  it  is  not  right  that  you  should  so  censure  your- 
self. I  —  cannot  bear  that  you  should.  You  —  you 
—  saved  my  life,  Locke."  Her  voice  almost  died  away 
in  the  stress  of  her  emotion. 

"  And  besides,"  put  in  Running  Bird,  bluntly,  as  he 
stalked  stealthily  ahead,  "  the  night  has  ears,  and  fool- 
ish talk  can  be  easily  heard." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  camp,  where  there  was  no 
sign  of  fire  or  light,  nothing  but  thick  darkness,  it  was 
Hugh  Hunt  who  told  them,  in  a  low  voice  that  was  no 

[371] 


JTHE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

louder  than  the  whispering  of  the  river,  how  they  had 
heard  the  Indians  as  they  slipped  by  on  their  way  south, 
but  had  not  dared  to  make  their  presence  known,  in  the 
hope  of  ascertaining  whether  or  not  the  Indians  had 
stumbled  upon  Locke  and  Katharine,  for  fear  of  giving 
them  away  if,  by  any  chance,  they  had  managed  to 
secrete  themselves  before  they  were  seen.  They  hardly 
hoped  the  missing  ones  had  been  so  fortunate,  but  they 
dared  take  no  chances. 

"  No,"  Running  Bird  had  said,  "  when  they  have 
gone,  we  will  search  for  our  friends.  If  we  find  them 
dead,  we  should  have  gained  nothing  by  showing  our- 
selves. If  we  find  them  unhurt,  all  is  well.  If  we  find 
them  not  at  all,  then  I  will  follow  after  my  people 
alone  and  —  do  what  I  can.  Your  cross  is  not  very 
popular  just  now,  Slender  Ash." 

The  time  had  been  very  long.  They  had  not  dared 
call  aloud  for  fear  that  the  Indians  had  not  really  gone. 
The  search  had  thus  been  carried  on  under  extreme  dif- 
ficulties. They  had  found  no  trace  of  a  scuffle  or  of  an 
encounter  of  any  kind.  They  had  never  once  thought 
of  the  river.  Running  Bird  had  finally  decided  to  leave 
White  Flower  and  Hugh  in  camp,  and,  after  one  more 
trip  up  the  river,  to  mount  and  take  after  the  savages. 
It  was  on  this  last  scout  that  he  met  Locke  and  Kath- 
arine. 

Once  more,  the  little  party  held  consultation.  This 
time,  it  was  agreed  that  they  must  go  on  —  they  must 
have  the  night  for  their  travelling  time.  Daylight  must 
them  many  miles  away  from  the  spot  where  a  white 


INTO     HIS     OWN    AT     LAST 

man  and  woman  had  been  seen  of  an  Indian  war  party. 
Who  could  say  that  some  of  them  or  all  of  them  might 
not  come  creeping  back  in  the  morning  to  see  if  they 
could  not  get  some  light  upon  the  mysterious  disap- 
pearance which  was  so  absolute  and  so  unexplainable 
that  it  was  like  jugglery?  If  they  came  back  and 
found  the  little  camp,  what  could  Running  Bird  do 
against  so  many,  mad  with  the  blood  frenzy  ?  But  when 
they  would  have  gathered  in  the  horses,  they  found,  to 
their  dismay,  that  the  horses  were  gone. 

"  They  have  stolen  them.  That  is  all  the  more  reason 
for  our  going  at  once,"  said  Locke,  decidedly. 

"  Much  depends  upon  your  grit  and  endurance,  Mis* 
Mendenhall,"  said  Hugh,  gravely. 

"  Don't  stop  for  me,"  said  Katharine,  stoutly,  though 
she  was  so  chilled  that  her  voice  shook  in  spite  of  her. 
"  It  will  be  warmer  walking  and  —  I  could  not  bear  to 
wait  for  them  to  come  back." 

The  loss  of  their  horses  was  a  serious  handicap. 
"  Still,  better  they  than  we,"  said  Hugh,  cheerfully. 

Before  starting,  Katharine  wrung  the  water  out  of 
her  dripping  hair  as  best  she  could,  and,  with  White 
Flower's  aid,  removed  her  soaked  frock  and  improvised 
a  dry  one  out  of  a  blanket,  laughed,  and  said  she  was 
ready  and  very  comfortable.  Locke  also  dried  himself 
as  well  as  he  could  under  the  circumstances  —  Running 
Bird  would  not  permit  a  fire  —  and  the  little  party  once 
more  set  off  on  its  weary  march.  Running  Bird  cau- 
tioned them  all  to  absolute  silence,  and  then  took  his 
place  in  the  rear  —  the  war  party  had  gone  south  — 

[373] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

while,  to  the  surprise  and  dissatisfaction  of  the  white 
men,  White  Flower  assumed  the  position  in  the  lead. 

"  Let  her  alone,"  said  Running  Bird,  briefly,  when 
they  would  have  remonstrated.  "  I  told  her.  Even  a 
Dakota  woman  hears  better  than  a  white  person." 

"  I  cannot  let  a  woman  take  the  place  of  danger," 
said  Locke,  decidedly.  "  I  am  pretty  good  at  a  scout. 
Let  me  — " 

"  Lead  us  into  the  river  again  ?  "  interrupted  Run-, 
ning  Bird,  cuttingly.  He  admired  profoundly  the 
strategy  which  had  outwitted  his  own  countrymen,  but 
he  held  in  much  contempt  the  judgment  of  the  man 
which  had  made  this  desperate  chance  necessary.  An- 
other time,  he  might  not  be  so  successful  in  extricating 
himself  from  the  meshes  of  his  own  weaving.  So  Locke 
had  to  be  content  with  the  Indian's  decision. 

They  moved  forward  that  night  as  rapidly  as  was 
possible  without  horses  and  in  the  wet  and  bedraggled 
condition  of  two  of  the  party.  The  following  day,  they 
remained  in  hiding.  So  they  planned  their  journey  — 
to  travel  by  night  and  to  hide  by  day.  They  slept 
much  in  turn  and  felt  rested  and  refreshed  again  be- 
fore night  came  on.  The  warm  June  sun  filtering 
through  the  foliage  of  their  place  of  concealment  soon 
completely  dried  Katharine's  frock  of  antelope  skin,  and 
she  declared  herself  ready  for  anything,  now  that  she 
was  once  more  clothed  in  the  garments  of  respecta- 
bility. 

They  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the  Powder  only  to 
find  rippling  water  where  the  Far  West  had  ridden  at 

[374] 


INTO    HIS     OWN    AT     LAST 

anchor,  and  the  ashes  of  dead  camp-fires  where  those 
gallant  soldiers  whom  Katharine  Mendenhall  had  so 
longed  to  see  had  stopped  for  a  little  while.  The  men 
had  been  very  merry  and  determined,  except  just  once 
in  a  rare  while  when  they  thought  wistfully  of  far-away 
Eastern  homes  and  sweet-faced  mothers  with  soft  gray 
hair  and  waiting  wives;  then  they  had  gone  on  their 
march  again  up  the  river  to  the  Rosebud ;  then  on  that 
fatal  scout  from  whence  so  many  were  to  slip,  with  the 
little  fighting  smile  of  the  American  soldier,  into  the 
Great  Beyond.  Little  did  these  friends  dream  then, 
however,  of  what  a  few  days  would  bring  to  those  light- 
hearted  boys  who  had  passed  that  way  a  short  time  ago, 
but  who  would  never  pass  that  way  again.  The  de- 
serted camp-fires  made  the  place  seem  lonelier  than  be- 
fore, though  the  soldiers  had  come  and  gone  between 
times,  and  the  members  of  the  party  had  seen  them  not. 
Anticipating  their  not  being  able  to  accomplish  their 
mission  in  time  to  find  the  steamer  still  there,  Locke  and 
Hugh  had  persuaded  the  captain  to  promise  to  leave 
a  small  boat  in  concealment  for  their  use.  Had  he  kept 
his  word?  What  if  he  had  changed  his  mind?  What 
if  it  had  been  discovered  by  skulking  savages?  It  took 
courage  to  make  the  search,  but  the  boat  was  there ;  and 
it  seemed  to  Locke  that  their  troubles  were  fairly 
well  over.  He  did  not  belittle  the  hazard  of  drifting 
by  night  down  the  swift  and  turbulent  Yellowstone, 
swollen  by  the  June  rise,  constantly  menaced  by  snags 
and  rapids  as  they  would  be;  but  he  felt  that  so  far 
as  any  man  could  have  power  over  that  hungry  element 

[375] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIU 

of  nature,  water,  he  had  it,  after  his  years  of  training 
at  the  oars  —  to  say  nothing  of  his  natural  liking  for 
it  and  his  aptitude  at  learning  its  secrets.  The  ocean 
and  swift  mountain  streams  had  always  appealed  to  him 
strongly.  He  felt  confident  of  his  ability  to  steer  their 
little  craft  through  the  perils  of  the  downward  way. 

Running  Bird  abided  with  his  sweetheart  and  his 
friends  until  evening.  White  Flower  had  at  first  pleaded 
to  go  with  him,  but  he  said  it  was  impossible.  He  had 
planned  to  take  her,  but  the  loss  of  the  horses  had 
changed  all  that.  The  trip  would  be  too  hard  for  her, 
and,  besides,  he  could  not  spare  the  time  to  proceed 
as  slowly  as  he  must  if  she  were  with  him  on  foot.  He 
must  hasten  to  join  Black  Moon,  or  he  would  miss  all 
the  glory  of  the  fighting.  The  white  soldiers  had 
already  passed  on.  Perhaps  even  now,  he  had  tarried 
too  long.  At  the  mention  of  Black  Moon  and  the  fight- 
ing, the  Indian  Girl's  face  lightened  wonderfully,  and 
she  bade  him  go  at  once.  Not  for  all  the  world  would 
she  have  hindered  him  then.  Her  savage  little  heart 
was  still  singing  its  paeans  of  joy  over  the  return  of  her 
lover  to  his  faith  and  his  people. 

"  We  will  take  good  care  of  her,  Running  Bird," 
promised  Hugh,  holding  the  Indian's  hand  a  long  time 
before  he  let  him  go ;  "  and  when  this  useless  and  cruel 
war  is  over,  you  will  come  for  her  and  I  will  marry  you. 
We  shall  all  be  very  happy  then." 

Running  Bird  glanced  swiftly  at  his  sweetheart. 
What  would  she  say  to  a  Christian  ceremony? 

"  Yes,  I  will  come  for  her,"  he  said,  before  she  had 
[376] 


INTO    HIS    OWN    AT    LAST 

time  to  speak ;  "  and  then  we  shall  say  good-bye,  and  our 
white  friends  will  see  us  no  more." 

"  Only  I,  Running  Bird,"  said  Hugh,  with  his  serene 
smile.  "  It  is  not  so  easy  for  brothers  to  say  that  word. 
You  mean  we  shall  say  good-bye  to  our  white  friends, 
and  it  may  be  that  we  shall  see  them  no  more.  For 
whither  thou  goest — "  he  paused,  still  smiling,  for  he 
knew  that  Running  Bird  understood. 

In  the  quiet  of  early  evening,  the  Indian  slipped  away 
and  was  soon  lost  to  sight  in  the  fast  gathering  gloom. 
A  little  later,  Locke,  from  now  on  captain  of  the  crew, 
placed  the  members  of  his  company  as  he  would  have 
them  —  the  two  girls  in  the  stern  from  whence  they 
could  easily  slip  to  the  bottom  when  they  became  sleepy, 
or  if  menace  from  the  shore  demanded  a  safer  position ; 
Hugh  Hunt  in  the  bow  on  the  lookout  for  danger  ahead ; 
himself  at  the  oars.  The  Missionary  could  be  trusted 
to  see  but  not  to  give  the  quick  turn  that  would  save 
collision  with  a  partly  submerged  tree  trunk,  or  to  keep 
the  boat's  nose  uncompromisingly  straight  with  the 
current  to  prevent  her  from  capsizing  when  unexpectedly 
running  into  a  stretch  of  rapids.  Neither  of  these 
crises  could  be  safely  met  and  overcome  without  expe- 
rience. 

The  girls,  after  the  first  fear  of  the  dark  and  rushing 
river  had  somewhat  passed  away,  slept.  Thus,  during 
the  day,  the}'  were  able  to  maintain  the  lookout  for 
Indians  while  the  men  took  their  rest.  They  had  plenty 
of  provisions,  provided  they  were  not  unduly  delayed 
before  reaching  the  first  military  post,  where  they  hoped 

[377] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

to  replenish  their  stock.  The  weather  was  perfect, 
still  and  fair  for  the  most  part.  Strangely  enough, 
there  were  no  alarms.  Sometimes  during  the  day,  while 
they  lounged  away  the  time  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
they  saw  smoke  rising  in  the  distance  which  White 
Flower  said  came  from  signal  fires;  but  they  met  no 
one,  saw  no  one.  The  long  days  and  nights  drifted 
dreamily  away,  and,  in  the  peace  of  them,  and  in  the 
great  joy  of  going  home,  Katharine  almost  forgot  the 
awful  shadow  that  still  lay  between  her  and  happiness. 
It  seemed  so  far  away  now  —  the  shadow  —  in  the 
serenity  of  these  fair  days  when  nothing  came  to  dis- 
turb the  sweetness  and  peace  of  her  love  and  Locke's 
in  the  wild  and  rugged  and  lonely  but  Summer-kissed 
country  of  the  Yellowstone.  On  their  part,  White 
Flower  and  Hugh  Hunt  dreamed  their  dreams,  too,  and 
perhaps  they  were  just  as  fair,  and  the  Missionary's 
fairest  of  all,  though  he  could  not  help  seeing  himself 
travelling  the  way  to  the  place  of  those  dreams  alone  — 
always  alone. 

They  stopped  at  all  the  forts  along  the  river,  which 
tended  to  lighten  materially  the  hardships  of  their  un- 
dertaking. At  all  of  them,  the  wayfarers  received  a 
hearty  welcome  and  were  urged  to  remain  until  a  steamer 
should  be  returning;  but  the  length  of  the  stay  of  the 
steamers  in  the  upper  country  was  so  problematical,  and 
their  trip  thus  far  had  been  attended  with  so  much  of 
good  fortune,  they  could  not  be  persuaded  to  wait. 
Primitive  though  living  was  at  these  frontier  posts,  it 
seemed  almost  luxurious  to  them  after  their  long  expe- 

[378] 


INTO    HIS     OWN    AT     LAST 

rience  in  the  open;  and,  when  they  finally  continued 
their  journey  down  the  river,  they  always  felt  much 
rested  and  refreshed. 

At  Fort  Abraham  Lincoln,  they  were  particularly 
welcomed  and  plied  with  questions  by  the  anxious  wives 
of  the  officers  of  the  gallant  Seventh  Cavalry.  Though 
they  had  been  so  recently  at  the  front,  it  was  little  the 
guests  could  tell,  except  that  the  very  grass  seemed  to 
grow  Indians.  They  had  not  met  the  troops  on  the 
march.  All  they  had  seen  of  the  soldiers  was  the  ashes 
of  their  camp-fires.  The  sweet-faced  wife  of  the  Gen- 
eral who  never  came  back,  although  sadly  disappointed 
when  she  learned  that  the  new  arrivals  had  seen  nothing 
of  the  Seventh  Cavalry  itself,  was  very  gracious  to 
Katharine  Mendenhall  and  urged  her  to  remain  with 
her  and  the  other  wives  until  some  boat  went  down ;  but 
Katharine  was  adamant  in  her  determination  to  press 
on  without  more  delay  than  was  absolutely  necessary. 
When  the  little  party  left,  all  the  waiting,  newsless,  iso- 
lated people  at  the  fort  trooped  down  to  the  river  to 
speed  them  on  their  way,  all  unconscious  that  even  then 
a  steamer  was  on  its  sad  j  ourney  to  them,  heavy  with  the 
tidings  it  bore,  tortured  with  the  suffering  of  its 
wounded. 

A  night's  journey  out  of  Fort  Lincoln,  Hugh  Hunt, 
to  his  utter  dismay,  found  himself  unable  to  lift  his  head 
without  a  darkness  swimming  dizzily  before  his  eyes. 
If  he  should  be  the  cause  of  detaining  Katharine  Men- 
denhall longer  from  her  parents!  He  gripped  himself 
hard,  rested  all  day,  at  night,  took  his  place  in  the 

[379] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

bow  of  the  boat,  and  quietly  toppled  down  to  the  bot- 
tom. When  he  opened  his  dizzy  eyes,  he  was  on  shore 
on  a  bed  consisting  of  everybody's  blankets.  Locke  and 
Katharine  were  bending  anxiously  over  him,  while  White 
Flower  tended  a  fire,  carefully  secluded  under  an  over- 
hanging bluff  and  cleverly  barricaded  with  rocks  so  that 
its  gleam  could  not  penetrate  far.  On  the  fire,  some 
odorous  concoction  was  brewing.  So,  after  all,  he  was 
to  be  the  cause  of  delay! 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  gently.  "  It  is  nothing.  I 
think,  in  an  hour  or  two,  I  shall  be  able  to  go  on.  I  did 
not  intend  to  be  so  foolish." 

"  Indeed,  we  will  not  go  on,"  said  Katharine,  warmly. 
"  The  motion  of  the  boat  would  only  serve  to  increase 
the  dizziness.  You  have  a  fever.  It  comes  from  com- 
plete exhaustion,  I  think.  White  Flower  is  making 
you  a  tonic  out  of  some  herbs  she  has  with  her.  Then 
you  must  sleep." 

"  But  you  —  it  is  so  terrible  for  you,"  he  murmured, 
wearily. 

"  You  must  not  forget  that,  but  for  you,  I  should  not 
be  here  at  all,"  she  said,  gently. 

He  was  no  better  in  the  morning.  Toward  evening, 
he  called  Locke  to  him. 

"  You  must  go  on  to-night  with  Miss  Mendenhall," 
he  said  earnestly.  "  It  is  not  fair  to  her  to  keep  her 
here  longer.  Leave  me  some  rations  and  blankets  and 
White  Flower,  and  I  shall  do  very  well.  White  Flower 
will  take  care  of  me  for  Running  Bird's  sake." 

"  You  might  just  as  well  spare  yourself  breath  once 
[380] 


INTO    HIS    OWN    AT    LAST 

and  for  all,"  said  Locke,  with  a  smile.  "  We  shall 
never  any  of  us  leave  you.  That  question  is  altogether 
settled.  It  is  useless  to  pursue  it  farther." 

"  I  have  not  deserved  such  friendship.  I  am  grate- 
ful —  but  I  wish  you  would  take  her  home,"  said  Hugh, 
wistfully. 

A  day  or  two  afterward,  in  the  afternoon,  Katharine 
and  White  Flower  climbed  the  bluffs  to  see  if  there  were 
any  signs  of  Indians.  They  were  little  afraid,  as  they 
had  been  absolutely  unmolested  since  leaving  the  Powder ; 
but  ordinary  caution  demanded  that  a  lookout  be  main- 
tained during  their  enforced  stay  on  shore.  Locke  had 
fallen  asleep  by  the  side  of  the  Missionary.  The  climb 
to  the  summit  of  the  bluffs  made  them  very  warm,  and, 
after  a  careless  glance  around,  Katharine  faced  up- 
gtream  to  let  the  breeze  fan  her  flushed  countenance. 
A  touch  on  her  arm  caused  her  to  wheel  quickly.  White 
Flower's  eyes  were  gazing  steadily  over  the  prairie,  her 
finger  was  upon  her  lips.  At  first,  Katharine  saw  noth- 
ing but  sun-seared  grass  and  shining  sky.  Presently, 
however,  she  shrank  back  in  terror.  Something  ap- 
peared above  that  knoll  over  yonder,  only  to  disappear 
as  quickly.  To  Katharine's  alarmed  imagination,  the 
mysterious  object  had  taken  on  the  likeness  of  a  man's 
head  and  shoulders. 

"  I  saw  it  once  before,"  whispered  White  Flower. 

"  We  must  run  and  tell  the  boys,"  cried  Katharine, 
hurriedly. 

"  Wait,"  said  White  Flower. 

A  long  time,  they  waited  and  watched  the  little  knoll 
[381] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

that  lay,  quiet  and  innocent-looking,  under  the  white 
glare  of  the  sun ;  but  they  saw  nothing  more,  and  Kath- 
arine's sudden  fright  fell  from  her. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  wolf,"  she  said,  relieved,  and, 
White  Flower  not  dissenting,  she  accompanied  the  In- 
dian girl  back  to  camp,  firm  in  the  belief  that  what  they 
had  seen  was  but  some  wild  creature  of  the  prairie. 

As  they  approached  the  camp,  they  perceived  that 
the  men  were  still  sleeping;  and  then,  suddenly,  they 
halted,  riveted  to  the  spot.  A  moving  bush  had  at- 
tracted their  attention  simultaneously.  Soon,  from 
between  its  leafy  branches,  a  dusky  face  peered  forth, 
and  a  pair  of  dark,  gleaming  eyes  gazed  down  upon 
the  unconscious  slumberers.  So  well  had  Katharine 
schooled  herself  during  her  residence  in  the  Dakota 
camp,  that  she  did  not  scream  but  only  stared  in  speech- 
less horror.  The  bushes  swayed  more  violently  than 
before,  and  this  time,  the  tall  form  of  an  Indian  stepped 
into  full  view  and  stood  looking  down  meditatively  upon 
the  sleeping  men.  With  a  little  inarticulate  cry,  White 
Flower  sprang  forward,  and  Katharine  followed  in  a 
rush  of  glad  relief.  The  man  was  Running  Bird. 

The  confusion  attendant  upon  their  greetings  soon 
aroused  Locke  and  the  Missionary,  and  then  there  were 
more  greetings.  The  welcome  was  so  hearty  and  sin- 
cere that  his  pleasure  in  it  showed  even  through  the  stolid 
self-control  of  his  Indian  nature;  but,  even  so,  Hugh 
Hunt  who,  perhaps,  loved  him  best  of  all,  knew  that  he 
carried  a  heavy  heart. 

"  The  Slender  Ash  is  sick,"  said  Running  Bird,  the 
[382] 


INTO    HIS    OWN    AT    LAST 

gloom  of  his  countenance  deepening.     "  All  the  world 
is  sick,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  No,  no,  I  am  nearly  well  now,"  Hugh  assured  him, 
"  thanks  to  White  Flower  as  well  as  to  these  others. 
Ah,  Running  Bird,  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart 
on  the  bride  you  have  won."  In  his  soul,  Hugh  thanked 
God  that  he  had  not  been  led  into  error  when  once,  a 
long  time  ago,  he  had  wished  that  he  might  conscien- 
tiously help  Mad  Wolf  win  this  girl  away  from  his 
friend,  because  she  had  an  Indian  heart. 

"  Was  it  you,  Running  Bird? "  asked  Katharine, 
curiously. 

"  Who,  me?  "  grunted  Running  Bird,  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  the  man  we  saw,  or  thought  we  saw,  bob  up 
from  behind  a  knoll  away  over  there  on  the  bluff,"  ex- 
plained Katharine. 

Running  Bird  looked  at  her  attentively  for  a  moment, 
and  then  at  White  Flower  who  confirmed  Katharine's 
words  with  a  nod.  Without  a  word  of  explanation  or 
of  apology,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  was  soon  ob- 
served stealing  up  the  side  of  the  bluff.  In  a  little 
while,  he  was  lost  to  view.  His  return  was  awaited  with 
breathless  interest.  When  he  came  back,  he  said, 
briefly,  that  he  had  found  signs  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on 
the  prairie  sod;  and,  as  there  was  evidence  of  only  the 
one  animal,  it  was  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  marks 
had  been  left  by  a  lone  horse  strayed  from  pasture. 
Hugh  thought  he  seemed  a  little  perturbed,  but  the 
rest  of  the  party  were  plainly  relieved  at  the  matter-of- 
fact  statement,  and  Locke  went  gayly  about  his  prep- 

[383] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIIi 

arations  for  renewing  the  journey  that  night.  Hugh 
had  insisted  on  his  fitness  for  the  trip. 

"  And  now  tell  us  about  the  battle,"  said  Hugh, 
gravely. 

At  the  words,  Locke  left  off  his  fitting  up  of  the  boat 
and  drew  near  to  listen,  realizing  for  the  first  time  that 
it  was  altogether  probable  that  Running  Bird  had  come 
straight  from  the  field.  So  peaceful  and  uneventful  had 
been  their  progress  down  the  river  that  it  seemed  hard 
to  believe  there  had  been  stirring  action,  much  blood- 
shed, the  making  of  much  history,  and  the  breaking  of 
many  hearts  during  those  few  short  days. 

"  It  was  as  I  said,"  began  Running  Bird,  thus  im- 
portuned. "  The  Great  Father  had  no  conception  of 
our  numbers.  I  obtained  a  very  swift  horse  from  some 
friends  I  met,  and  soon  joined  my  soldier  band,  who 
were  with  Black  Moon  on  the  Little  Big  Horn.  Crazy 
Horse  had  also  just  arrived  with  news  of  the  fighting 
with  Crook  on  the  Rosebud.  It  was  a  very  great  vic- 
tory for  the  Oglala  chief.  In  the  morning  he  should 
have  finished.  There  would  have  been  no  man  left." 

"  And  why  did  n't  he,  Running  Bird?  "  asked  Hugh, 
quietly. 

"  Crazy  Horse  withdrew  in  the  night,"  was  the  sud- 
den bitter  answer.  "  He  was  satisfied  with  his  one  little 
victory.  He  was  a  fool.  All  my  people  are  fools," 
he  interpolated,  with  sombre  fierceness.  "  It  is  right 
that  the  white  should  have  the  ascendency  over  the  red. 
White  soldiers  never  run  away  when  they  have  struck 
one  blow ;  they  stay  until  they  have  finished  their 

[384]  , 


INTO     HIS     OWN     AT     LAST 

enemy  so  that  he  cannot  recover  and  strike  back.  I 
told  Crazy  Horse  that  was  the  way,  but  it  was  his  battle  ; 
he  had  won  it,  and  he  slipped  away  in  the  night  to  re- 
joice over  it.  Then,  while  all  our  seven  mighty  vil- 
lages lay  waiting,  there  came  a  handful  of  men  under 
the  leadership  of  that  war  chief  who  found  our  gold.  I 
think  that  the  Great  Father  will  never  again  go  to  war 
with  the  Dakotas  without  first  seeing  for  himself* 
whether  or  not  the  warriors  are  sleeping  in  their  tipis, 
Is  it  that  he  holds  the  lives  of  his  soldiers  so  cheap? 
They  were  very  brave,  but  they  were  swallowed  up  by 
our  thousands  of  Dakotas  as  a  pebble  thrown  from  the 
shore  is  swallowed  up  by  the  river.  A  rush,  a  splash,, 
little  ripples  —  no  pebble.  It  all  happened  in  a  very 
few  minutes.  He  was  foolish  to  lead  his  men  into  an 
ambush,  but  he  was  very  brave.  He  was  the  bravest 
enemy  I  ever  knew.  He  died  fighting  to  the  last,"  con- 
cluded Running  Bird,  moodily. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  our  troops  were  whipped?  " 
cried  Locke,  incredulously. 

"  I  think  they  must  have  been,"  said  the  Indian, 
quietly,  "  for  no  one  came  out  to  boast  of  victory  or  to 
send  word  to  the  Great  Father  how  many  we  really 
were.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  did  not  know." 

"  It  is  a  pity  he  did  not  know,"  repeated  Hugh,  in 
a  low  voice,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"  And  not  one  came  back  ?  "  whispered  Katharine. 
Dead!  All  dead,  like  the  ashes  of  those  camp-fires  at 
the  mouth  of  the  far-away  Powder ! 

"I  —  cannot  seem  to  believe  it,"  said  Locke,  slowly, 
25  [  385  ] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

"And  then  what  happened?"  questioned  White 
Plower,  eagerly. 

"  The  earth  grew  warriors.  We  swarmed  over  the 
whole  world.  We  fought  that  leader  who  had  taken 
up  his  position  on  the  east  side  of  the  Little  Horn  until 
away  in  the  night,  and  we  fought  him  again  in  the 
morning.  Then  we  had  to  go  away  for  a  little  while 
because  we  had  no  more  ammunition.  It  was  the  great- 
est victory  the  Dakotas  ever  had.  It  was  even  greater 
than  Red  Cloud's  war." 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Running  Bird,  if  your 
victory  was  so  great?  "  asked  Hugh,  searchingly. 

The  Indian  stood  up,  drew  himself  to  his  full  height, 
and  folded  his  arms  in  the  old  haughty  way. 

66  It  is  no  use,"  he  said,  his  voice  full  of  mournful 
cadences.  It  was  given  him  then,  as  it  had  once  been 
given  to  Black  Tomahawk  and  to  others,  to  see  the  end, 
and,  in  giving  utterance  to  the  prophecy,  his  In- 
dian heart  was  broken.  "  If  Black  Moon  had  not  been 
killed  so  early,  it  might  have  been  different.  He  was 
a  great  leader.  But  it  is  too  late  now.  My  people 
are  all  scattered.  They  are  content  with  the  one  great 
blow  struck.  They  follow  no  one  man  —  each  does  as 
he  pleases.  They  like  best  to  break  up  into  small 
bands.  No  one  sticks  to  the  other.  It  does  not  seem 
Indian  nature  to  stick  together  to  the  end.  The  Da- 
kotas have  won  so  great  a  victory  that  they  think  the 
Black  Hills  and  the  buffalo  country  are  saved  to  us.  If 
we  had  stayed  together  and  beaten  those  other  soldiers 
"who  are  marching  there,  and  still  stayed  together  until 

[386] 


INTO    HIS     OWN    AT     LAST 

the  Great  Father  had  sent  yet  others,  and  beaten  them 
all,  I  think  he  would  have  given  up  then  as  he  did  for 
Red  Cloud.  But  we  scattered,  and  now  he  will  not  be 
afraid  of  little  bands.  He  will  never  give  up.  He  will 
be  revenged  for  those  men  who  never  came  out  of  the  val- 
ley. It  is  right.  The  white  man  is  a  smarter  man  than 
the  Indian.  When  I  saw  my  people  scattering  and  con- 
tenting themselves  with  murdering  settlers  in  the  Black 
Hills,  thinking  in  their  foolishness  that  that  was  all  they 
had  to  do  now,  I  thought  of  my  little  white  brother  - 
how  it  was  not  his  way  to  kill  or  to  steal  or  to  lie ; 
how  much  greater  and  smarter  he  was  than  any  Indian 
I  ever  knew,  and  how  he  mourned  over  the  mistakes 
white  people  make  as  well  as  Dakotas.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  Great  Spirit  meant  that  I  should  listen  to  him 
because  his  way  was  the  right  way.  I  have  listened  in 
the  past  to  the  Great  Father  and  his  counsellors.  They 
murdered  my  father  and  stole  my  land  and  my  gold, 
and  laughed  at  their  sacred  pledges.  I  have  listened  to 
Black  Moon,  Gall,  Crazy  Horse,  Sitting  Bull,  and  all 
the  great  leaders  of  my  people.  They  scattered  and 
are  wantonly  putting  to  death  defenceless  men,  women, 
and  children.  Then  I  thought  of  the  Slender  Ash. 
All  that  he  ever  told  me  is  true.  He  is  the  wisest  of 
all,  and  the  best.  Because  he  is  true,  I  think  his  Man 
on  the  Cross  is  true.  So  I  washed  all  the  war  paint  off, 
sent  my  young  men  on  toward  the  Agency,  and  myself 
rode  fast  day  and  night,  for  I  hoped  to  overtake  the 
Slender  Ash  somewhere  on  the  road.  I  came  almost 
straight  across  country.  But  I  should  have  missed  him 

[387] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAII3 

if  he  had  not  been  sick.  I  am  sorry  that  he  is  sick, 
but  I  am  glad  to  find  him  again.  I  am  only  a  poor 
Indian  and  my  heart  is  heavy  because  of  many  things  — 
but  I  think  my  little  white  brother  will  understand.  I 
have  come  to  listen  to  him  always,  and  to  do  the  best  I 
can." 

And  Hugh  Hunt  thought  he  had  failed  when  Run- 
ning Bird  went  to  war!  Both  of  his  hands  were  before 
his  eyes  now,  for  they  were  full  of  tears.  Katharine, 
too,  was  weeping  softly  in  sympathy.  No  one  noticed 
White  Flower  —  no  one,  at  least,  except  Running  Bird. 
All  the  joy  had  gone  from  her  expressive  face.  It 
looked  dull  and  old.  She  slipped  away  by  herself  pres- 
ently and  her  lover  made  no  effort  to  follow  her.  He 
knew  that  she  wanted  to  fight  it  out  alone.  When  she 
came  back,  she  would  probably  revile  him  for  cow- 
ardice, ridicule  him  for  soft-heartedness,  scorn  him  as 
a  man,  and  —  leave  him.  That  was  one  of  the  things 
which  made  his  heart  so  heavy.  But  a  gleam  came  into 
his  eyes  —  he  should  not  let  his  little  White  Flower  go 
easily. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  helping  Locke  to  load  up,  while 
Katharine  and  the  Missionary  laughingly  gave  orders. 
It  was  getting  dusk.  A  red  afterglow  shone  on  the 
river.  Suddenly,  the  evening  quiet  was  broken  by  a 
woman's  piercing  scream.  It  came  from  the  bluff. 
Locke  and  Running  Bird  seized  their  rifles  and  ran  for- 
ward, but  the  Indian  soon  out-distanced  the  white  man. 
He  scaled  the  bluff  with  the  litheness  and  swiftness  of  a 
wild  cat.  Arrived  at  its  summit,  he  was  just  in  time 

[388] 


INTO    HIS     OWN    AT     LAST 

to  see  White  Flower  struggling  frantically  in  the  arms 
of  two  dismounted  Indians  before  they  flung  her  across 
the  saddle  in  front  of  a  third  mounted  savage,  and  then 
sprang  to  their  own  ponies.  Their  companion  scam- 
pered away  over  the  prairie.  Before  they  had  time  to 
mount,  Running  Bird's  rifle  rang  out,  and  a  dusky, 
half -naked  form  writhed  on  the  grassy  hill-top.  That 
gave  the  first  one  his  chance,  and,  leaping  on  his  horse, 
he  was  off  like  the  wind  just  as  Locke  came  up  and 
joined  Running  Bird  in  his  chase  after  the  fleeing  red- 
skins. Both  men  were  firing  incessantly  as  they  ran. 
The  Indian  in  the  rear  returned  the  fire  but  the  one  in 
advance  —  he  who  carried  White  Flower  —  urged  his 
horse  the  faster  and  never  once  looked  back,  trusting 
to  his  lieutenants  to  cover  his  retreat. 

"  Don't  shoot  at  him !  "  cried  Running  Bird.  "  We 
might  hurt  her !  I  will  see  to  him  later  —  if  we  can 
only  get  this  fellow  before  he  is  out  of  range !  " 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  Indian  reeled  in  his  saddle  and 
fell  to  the  ground. 

"  I  must  get  my  horse  now,'*  said  Running  Bird, 
throwing  down  his  rifle  and  making  for  a  gulch  a  short 
distance  away  where  he  had  tied  his  horse. 

"  Running  Bird ! "  cried  Locke,  sharply.  "  You 
will  lose  your  man  if  you  are  n't  careful,  and  for  God's 
sake  take  your  gun !  What  do  you  mean  by  throwing 
it  away  ?  "  He  was  trying  to  keep  up  with  the  nimble 
Indian  as  he  cried  his  disapproval  of  Running  Bird's 
methods. 

"  He  dropped  his,"  said  Running  Bird,  springing 
[389] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

lightly  into  his  saddle.  "  He  is  trusting  altogether  in 
flight.  Very  well,  let  him.  I  will  have  no  gun.  I 
might  hurt  her.  I  think  I  know  him,"  he  continued, 
grimly.  "  I  should  like  to  meet  him  face  to  face." 

Emitting  a  shrill,  Indian  cry^  he  bent  his  head  and 
was  off  over  the  prairie  in  wild  pursuit.  The  runaway 
had  the  advantage  of  the  lead;  but  his  horse  was  car- 
rying double,  and  Locke  considered  the  chances  about 
even.  He  was  hastening  back  to  reassure  Katharine 
and  the  Missionary,  who  would  probably  think  that  the 
whole  camp  was  to  be  attacked,  when  he  met  them  just 
emerging  from  behind  the  brow  of  the  bluff.  They 
understood  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  Can  it  be  High  Dog?  "  questioned  Katharine,  ex- 
citedly. "  Oh,  poor  White  Flower!  " 

Hugh  Hunt  was  breathing  heavily. 

"  You  should  not  have  come,"  rebuked  Locke,  gravely. 
"  You  were  not  strong  enough." 

"  I  tried  to  keep  him,"  explained  Katharine,  "  but  he 
would  not  listen  to  me." 

"  I  was  afraid  for  Running  Bird,"  apologized  Hugh, 
simply. 

The  country  was  level  for  a  long  distance,  and  the 
riders  could  be  plainly  seen  as  they  continued  their  mad 
dash  over  the  prairie.  It  was  lighter  up  here  on  the 
plateau  than  it  was  in  the  valley.  Running  Bird  was 
steadily  gaining  on  his  enemy.  He  had  the  better 
horse,  and  it  was  not  doubly  burdened.  The  anxious 
spectators  saw  him  soon  overtake  White  Flower's  ab- 
ductor. Both  Indians  dismounted,  and  White  Flower 

[390] 


Running  Bird  was  gaining  steadily  on  his  enemy 


INTO    HIS     OWN     AT     LAST 

ran  to  one  side.  The  men  clinched  and  swayed.  At 
last,  both  fell  to  the  ground  and  neither  one  got  up. 
White  Flower  ran  to  the  place  where  the  wrestlers  had 
fallen,  and  knelt  down.  The  rest  of  the  party,  who,  all 
during  the  encounter,  had  been  pressing  forward,  now 
quickened  their  pace. 

"  They  are  both  dead,  I  think,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  low, 
strange  voice. 

White  Flower  looked  up  as  they  approached.  She 
was  trying  to  stanch  the  blood  which  was  flowing  pro- 
fusely from  Running  Bird's  shoulder.  Hugh  knelt 
down  at  once  to  help  her,  ripping  his  shirt  from  his 
own  body  for  a  bandage.  The  other  Indian  lay 
crumpled  up  in  death. 

"  He  taunted  him,"  said  White  Flower,  whisper- 
ingly,  her  voice  thrilling  with  triumph.  "  Mad  Wolf 
taunted  him  and  said  he  had  killed  Black  Bull  —  Black 
Bull  who  did  not  start  back  to  Big  Bend  with  the  rest 
of  Running  Bird's  band  because  he  had  word  of  Mad 
Wolf's  presence  in  Yellow  Owl's  war  party.  When 
he  had  killed  the  grandson  of  White  Shield,  he  followed 
Running  Bird  because  he  knew  that  would  lead  him  to 
White  Flower.  He  said  he  had  taken  her  from  under 
Running  Bird's  very  nose  —  and  he  boasted  that  he 
would  keep  her.  He  cried  out  in  a  loud  voice  that  as 
he  had  killed  Black  Bull,  he  would  kill  all  his  enemies, 
and  he  grabbed  his  knife  and  plunged  it  into  Running 
Bird's  shoulder.  He  meant  it  for  the  heart,  but  Run- 
ning Bird  was  too  quick  for  him.  He  swung  aside,, 
drew  his  own  knife  and  drove  it  into  Mad  Wolf's  heart. 

[391] 


THE         SPI11IT        TRAIL 

Mad  Wolf  called  him  a  coward,  but  he  will  not  call  him 
that  again.  Running  Bird  is  no  coward,  if  he  does 
listen  to  the  woman's  talk  of  the  white  man,"  she  ended, 
looking  defiantly  at  the  Missionary. 

It  was  a  bad  cut ;  but  exhaustion  as  much  as  the  effect 
of  the  wound  had  kept  Running  Bird  from  getting  up. 
Mad  Wolf,  too,  had  a  splendid  physique,  and  the  strain 
of  the  fight  had  been  severe  before  ever  the  knives  were 
drawn.  When  the  wound  was  finally  bound  up  as  well 
as  it  could  be  under  the  circumstances,  and  Running 
Bird  had  somewhat  recovered  from  his  exhaustion,  he 
was  assisted  to  his  horse,  and  Hugh  mounted  behind 
to  support  him  in  the  saddle,  while  White  Flower  held 
liim  from  the  side,  and  Katharine  led  the  still  panting 
pony.  Locke  lingered  to  throw  the  quiet,  unresisting 
foody  of  the  once  wild  Brule  over  the  back  of  the  mas- 
terless  horse,  and  to  bring  it  back  to  be  buried  by  the 
side  of  its  two  companions  on  the  hill-top. 

It  was  a  strange  procession.  Night  had  fallen  at 
last,  but  in  Summer,  on  cloudless  nights,  it  is  never  al- 
together dark  on  those  hill-tops. 

"  I  thought  it  was  High  Dog,"  said  Katharine, 
softly.  "  What  a  mint  of  lovers  you  have,  White 
jFlower." 

•"  Where  were  they,  White  Flower?  "  asked  Hugh. 

u  They  slipped  from  behind  a  clump  of  plum 
bushes,"  said  White  Flower.  "  I  knew  Mad  Wolf  right 
away.  It  was  probably  he  whom  we  saw  behind  the 
knoll.  So  I  screamed." 

"Why?" 

[392] 


INTO    HIS    OWN    AT    LAST 

"  Because  I  knew  he  wanted  me  and  would  carry  me 
off,"  said  White  Flower,  composedly. 

"  But  you  thought  I  was  a  coward,"  said  Running 
Bird,  in  Dakota,  leaning  heavily  against  the  Missionary. 
66  Why  did  you  scream?  Didn't  you  want  to  go  with 
him?  Mad  Wolf  was  no  coward." 

"  When  I  saw  him,  I  knew  that  I  could  not  bear  to 
go  away  from  you,"  whispered  White  Flower,  also  in 
Dakota,  lifting  her  luminous  eyes  to  his  in  the  darkness. 
"  And  when  you  killed  him,  I  knew  you  were  no  coward. 
You  are  very  weak,"  she  said,  as  they  helped  him  from 
the  horse  at  the  camp.  "  Once  the  wind  blew  a  White 
Flower  out  of  your  reach  when  you  thought  you  had  it. 
But  now  it  sways  the  other  way  —  and  you  will  not 
have  to  move  —  for  — " 

"  My  little  White  Flower,"  he  murmured,  brokenly, 
as  she  crept  into  his  arms. 

They  laid  him  upon  Hugh's  bed  in  the  boat,  and, 
while  Wrhite  Flower  watched  over  him,  the  three  white 
people  once  more  climbed  the  bluff  to  perform  the  mel- 
ancholy duty  of  returning  the  bodies  of  the  three  In- 
dians to  the  dust  from  which  they  came. 

"  He  hated  much,  and  he  sinned  much,"  said  Hugh, 
as  he  gently  placed  a  stone  at  the  head  of  the  shallow 
grave,  "  but  he  has  paid  the  earthly  price  for  his  hating 
and  his  sinning.  We,  through  whose  mistakes  he  fell, 
have  still  the  price  to  pay.  I  pray  God,"  he  continued 
reverently,  "  that  our  eyes  may  be  opened  to  our  er- 
rors before  we  cause  many  more  to  stumble  as  this  poor 
f  ellow  did." 

[393] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Katharine  brought  a  stone,  too,  and  laid  it  sadly 
there.  She  had  before,  with  a  sweet,  womanly  thought, 
thrown  into  the  open  grave  some  green  branches  from 
the  plum  trees  that  fringed  the  top  of  the  bluff.  As- 
they  turned  to  leave  to  its  solitude  the  quiet,  lonely  spot, 
they  thought  of  the  many  things  that  had  conspired  to 
make  Mad  Wolf  what  he  was.  They  thought  espe- 
cially of  the  whiskey  certain  lawless  people  had  sold  to 
him  to  make  him  mad,  and  of  the  gold  certain  others 
would  take  from  him  which  had  rendered  him  desperate ; 
so  that  they  were  very  sad  at  heart  when  they  silently 
seated  themselves  in  the  boat,  having  abandoned  the 
Indian  ponies,  to  drift  once  more  down  the  dark 
river. 

They  left  Running  Bird  at  the  next  fort,  where  he 
could  get  much-needed  medical  assistance  from  the  army 
surgeon  there.  White  Flower  stayed  with  him.  Just 
before  the  boat  continued  its  journey,  the  surgeon, 
Katharine  Mendenhall,  and  Locke  Raynor  Crawford 
gathered  in  the  sick  room  to  witness  the  Christian  cere- 
mony which  united  Running  Bird  and  White  Flower 
as  man  and  wife.  The  words  of  the  service  were  read 
solemnly  but  with  a  deep  happiness  by  Hugh  Hunt,  a 
Missionary  of  the  White  Robe. 

When  all  had  left  the  room  but  Hugh  and  White 
Flower,  "  I  kill  no  more,"  Running  Bird  whispered, 
from  his  comfortable  bed,  strange  yet  to  the  Indian 
but  accepted  without  a  murmur  because  of  the  new  life 
he  was  to  lead.  "  But  I  had  to  kill  Mad  Wolf,  did  n't 
I,  little  brother?  " 

[394] 


INTO    HIS    OWN    AT    LAST 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh  Hunt,  sadly,  "you  had  to  kill 
Mad  Wolf." 

"  I  have  lost  everything  else.  I  could  not  lose  White 
Flower,  too." 

"  Everything,  Running  Bird?"  cried  Hugh,  his  face 
lighting  up  with  a  wonderful  radiance.  "  Rather  have 
you  gained  everything !  The  Man  on  the  Cross  who 
never  fights  back  is  more  than  all  these  —  more  than 
gold  or  lands  or  nations  —  more  than  pride  or  greed  or 
falsehood  —  more  than  covetousness,  double-dealing,  or 
broken  pledges  —  more  than  wars  or  triumphs  or  the 
scalps  of  our  enemies  —  more  than  white  or  red  or  black 
—  more  than  all  —  better  than  all  —  greater  than  all. 
Ah,  my  brother,  my  brother,  when  you  have  gained  Him, 
you  have  come  into  your  own  at  last !  " 


[395] 


CHAPTER  XXV 


f  I  ^HE  prosecuting  attorney  was  making  his  closing 
J[  argument.  Although  Barton  and  Sampson,  at- 
torneys for  the  defendant,  had  put  their  whole  souls 
into  this  second  fight,  the  testimony  did  not  differ  ma- 
terially from  that  produced  at  the  first  trial.  Locke's 
friends  were  at  heart  discouraged,  but  they  continued 
to  present  a  brave  front  to  the  world.  The  Govern- 
ment had  refrained  from  making  use  of  the  prisoner's 
having  broken  jail,  for  fear  of  the  sympathy  which 
might  be  gained  for  him  when  the  defence  retaliated  by 
explaining  the  real  motive  which  actuated  him,  coupled 
with  the  fact  of  his  having  given  himself  up  after  his 
object  had  been  accomplished. 

Katharine  Mendenhall  had  been  present  at  every  ses- 
sion of  the  court  until  now.  For  the  first  time  since 
the  beginning,  her  place  down  in  front,  close  to  the 
wall,  was  vacant.  So  many  knew  her  pathetic  story 
and  her  interest  in  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  that  this 
chair  was  always  left  for  her.  It  was  empty  now, 
though  the  court  room  was  crowded,  as  it  had  been 
from  the  first  day.  Many  missed  the  sweet,  pale,  ab- 
.sorbed  face,  with  its  crown  of  shining  hair,  and  the 

[396] 


"I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

dark  blue  eyes  where  dwelt  a  knowledge  of  the  deeps  of 
life  which  would  make  her  a  gentler  woman  as  long  as 
she  lived.  She  always  wore  a  plain  little  dress  of  some 
dark  material,  which  served  only  to  enhance  the  pale, 
grave  beauty  of  her  face,  and  the  gold  of  her  thick 
coils  of  braided  hair.  Simply  as  she  dressed,  she  looked 
queenly  to  those  who  had  so  long  seen  her  only  in  her 
short,  fringed  suit  of  antelope  skin;  and  even  stran- 
gers remarked  upon  the  evident  refinement  and  unques- 
tionable loveliness  of  the  woman  whom  the  prisoner  so 
loved.  Many  watched  for  her  return,  but  the  long, 
impassioned,  closing  demand  for  the  guilty  man's  life 
to  be  forfeited  to  the  Government  was  almost  ended, 
and  she  did  not  come.  The  prisoner  had  ceased  glanc- 
ing restlessly  down  at  the  empty  chair  since  Sampson 
had  whispered  to  him  Katharine's  message.  The  open- 
ing argument,  in  which  that  so  able  man  had  summed 
up  the  evidence  in  such  a  forcible  and  convincing  man- 
ner as  to  cause  any  disinterested  person  to  believe  that 
Locke  must  be  guilty,  had  been  too  much  for  her  al- 
ready overstrained  nerves.  She  sent  word  that  she  could 
not  bear  to  hear  the  lawyer  again  but  that  she  would 
be  there  when  the  verdict  was  returned. 

"  I  hope  you  are  proud  of  that  girl,"  said  Sampson, 
briefly,  when  he  had  delivered  the  message. 

Locke  did  not  answer  but  his  eyes  kindled  and  his 
face  flushed. 

"  When  her  father  was  recalled  to  Big  Bend,"  con- 
tinued Sampson,  "  he  did  everything  in  his  power  to 
force  that  girl  to  go  with  him.  But  do  you  think  she  'd 

I  397  ] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

do  it?  She  never  even  answered  him — in  so  many  words. 
She  just  smiled  and  —  stayed.  What  do  you  suppose 
the  Agent's  business  was,  anyway.  It  must  have  been 
important  or  he  'd  never  have  left  her  again.  They 
tell  me  he  has  n't  let  her  out  of  his  sight  since  you  took 
her  home  from  the  Indians  until  now.  Well,  I  congrat- 
ulate you  with  all  my  heart  upon  having  her." 

The  prosecuting  attorney  was  just  rounding  off  his 
peroration  with  an  earnest  admonition  to  the  jury  to  do 
their  duty  and  to  see  to  it  that  the  perpetrator  of  such  a 
foul  deed  go  not  unpunished,  when  the  Marshal  came 
into  the  room.  He  stepped  softly  forward  and  whis- 
pered something  to  the  speaker,  the  lawyer  bending  his 
head  to  listen  attentively. 

"  Your  Honor,"  he  said  then,  "  I  have  just  learned 
of  something  that  might  have  an  important  bearing 
upon  this  case.  I  should  like  to  be  excused  for  a  few 
minutes." 

"  You  are  excused,"  said  the  Court.  "  Be  back,  how- 
ever, as  soon  as  you  can,  as  I  want  to  submit  the  case  to 
the  jury  before  supper." 

In  about  twenty  minutes,  the  prosecuting  attorney 
returned. 

"  Your  Honor,"  he  said,  "  Peter  Dorsey,  our  princi- 
pal witness,  has  been  shot  in  a  gambling  den  and  is  dy- 
ing. He  has  made  a  statement  to  me  which  leads  me  to 
believe  that  the  defendant  is  not  guilty,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  prosecute  the  case  any  farther.  I  will  prepare 
.a  statement  and  an  order  dismissing  the  case." 

The  jury  was  discharged,  the  defendant  released  from 
[398] 


"I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

custody,  and  a  recess  taken,  all  so  quickly  and  unex- 
pectedly, that  Locke  was  almost  dazed  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  it  all.  People  crowded  around  him,  congratu- 
lating him,  asking  him  questions.  Mr.  Sampson  was 
shaking  hands  so  vigorously  that  he  forgot  he  was  mo- 
nopolizing until  forcibly  reminded  of  the  fact  by 
others  pushing  up.  Many  had  involuntarily  liked  the 
handsome,  clever,  clear-eyed,  athletic,  mysterious  pris- 
oner, despite  the  terrible  charge  against  him.  These 
now  openly  rejoiced;  and  many,  whose  interest  in  the 
case  had  been  intensified  by  the  presence  of  the  tall, 
slender,  black-robed,  care-worn  young  woman  from  the 
upper  country,  glanced  thoughtfully  at  her  still  empty 
chair  and  wished  that  she  were  there  to  witness  her 
lover's  complete  vindication,  as  she  had  been  there  to 
hear  all  the  bad  which  had  been  said  about  him  and  all 
the  lies  which  he  had  been  told.  And  Locke?  So  insist- 
ent was  his  longing  to  fly  to  Katharine  and  tell  her, 
that  he  was  on  the  point  of  roughly  forcing  his  way 
through  the  crowd  of  jostling,  excited  people,  when  the 
door  was  thrown  violently  open,  and  a  man  rushed  up 
the  aisle,  out  of  breath,  and  made  straight  for  the  quon- 
dam prisoner.  People  stared  in  wonder  at  this  new 
promise  of  some  extraordinary  development  in  this  most 
unusual  case.  The  newcomer  was  an  important  look- 
ing personage  with  iron  gray  hair,  smooth  face,  ex- 
pressive eyes  under  heavy  brows,  and  clothes  of  unmis- 
takable Eastern  cut.  He  grasped  Locke's  hand,  and, 
while  Locke  returned  the  greeting  cordially,  his  face 
was  a  study  in  astonishment  not  unmixed  with  chagrin. 

[399] 


T  H  E        SPIRIT        TRAII1 

"  Explain  yourself,  young  man,"  cried  the  stranger, 
at  once.  "  Murder?  That  was  the  deuce  and  all, 
was  n't  it?  I  just  heard,  as  a  rattle  trap  of  an  omnibus 
jolted  me  out  at  the  door,  that  you  had  been  released. 
High  time,  too !  Why,  in  the  name  of  reason,  did  n't 
you  let  a  fellow  know  you  were  in  trouble?  " 

"  I  'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  uncle,"  said  Locke, 
with  a  smile  in  which  relief  and  affection  were  curiously 
blended  with  a  hint  of  dismay.  "  But  how  did  you  get 
here  —  and  why  did  you  come  —  and  how  did  you  hear 
about  this  infernal  business  anyway  —  and  —  how  is 
dad?  Implacable  as  ever?  " 

The  two  men  were  walking  slowly  down  the  aisle  as 
they  talked.  At  the  foot  of  the  outer  steps,  the  United 
States  Marshal  was  standing.  He  held  out  his  hand 
and  Locke  took  it  silently. 

"  It  was  that  cursed  pink  bank-note,  Mr.  Crawford," 
he  said.  "  Up  to  that,  I  would  have  taken  my  oath  on 
your  innocence." 

That  was  his  only  apology. 

"  I  think  you  were  prejudiced  against  Special  Inspec- 
tor Warlick,"  said  Locke,  laughingly.  "  If  he  had 
been  for  me,  you  would  have  been  '  f orninst.'  Is  it  not 
so?  Let  me  present  my  uncle,  the  Secretary  of  the 
Interior." 

"  Your  family  tree  is  prolific  in  the  growth  of  names," 
said  the  Marshal,  after  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the 
cabinet  member.  "  You  '11  have  to  enlighten  me,  Mr. 
Crawford.  I  thought  you  said  that  your  mother's 
maiden  name  was  Raynor?  " 

[400] 


'I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

"  And  so  it  was.  My  mother  was  my  uncle's  half- 
sister." 

"  Well,  well,'*  said  the  Marshal,  shaking  his  head  in 
frank  surprise.  "  Who  would  have  thought  it?  And 
I  thought  I  had  you  on  that  name  proposition  for 
sure." 

On  the  way  to  the  hotel,  the  Secretary  explained  to> 
his  nephew  how  it  was  that  the  news  of  the  trial  and 
Locke's  connection  with  it  had  come  to  his  notice. 

"  I  have  been  having  some  correspondence  with  In- 
spector Warlick  in  regard  to  Indian  affairs  at  Big 
Bend,"  he  said,  "  and  once  I  had  occasion  to  write  di- 
rectly to  Major  Mendenhall.  In  his  reply,  explaining- 
some  things,  he  happened  to  mention  the  Inspector's 
antipathy  to  an  issue  clerk  who  had  been  giving  excel- 
lent service  at  Big  Bend,  until  arrested,  tried,  and  con- 
victed of  murder  in  the  first  degree.  He  said  the  young 
man  had  gone  by  the  name  of  Locke  Raynor,  but  that 
he  gave  his  name  at  the  first  trial  as  Locke  Raynor 
Crawford.  Think  of  it,  boy,  you  —  Isabel's  child  — 
convicted  of  murder  in  the  first  degree !  This  Agent 
went  on  to  explain  that  it  was  greatly  through  the  in- 
fluence of  Special  Inspector  Warlick  that  you  were  ar- 
rested in  the  first  place.  He  was  talking  about  you, 
else  I  should  have  thought  he  was  trying  to  prejudice 
me  against  the  Inspector,  who,  I  understand,  is  about  to 
prefer  some  sort  of  charges  against  the  Agent.  It 
seems  they  are  in  a  devil  of  a  mess  up  there.  I  think 
I  '11  just  run  up  and  straighten  things  out  myself  as 
long  as  I  'm  here  anyway.  As  soon  as  I  read  the  letter, 
26  [  401  ] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

I  took  the  next  train,  and  here  I  am.  Where  have  you 
been  all  this  time,  boy,  and  what  have  you  been  doing? 
Why  did  you  leave  home,  and  how  did  you  manage  to 
get  yourself  into  this  sort  of  a  scrape  anyway?  " 

They  had  arrived  at  the  entrance  to  the  hotel  by  this 
time,  the  same  hotel  where  Locke  and  Brian  Levering 
had  sat  together  one  Summer  evening,  and  here  Locke 
halted. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me,  uncle,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  I 
will  meet  you  here  in  an  hour.  I  must  go  now.  Miss 
Mendenhall  does  not  know  of  my  release.  She  has  been 
very  anxious.  I  will  explain  everything  when  I  get 
back." 

"  Great  Scott,  Locke,  I  hope  you  have  n't  gone  and 
tangled  yourself  up  with  any  of  these  husky  frontier 
girls!  Your  father  and  I  have  other  plans  for  you. 
I  ran  up  to  New  York  to  see  him  a  short  time  before  I 
received  that  dynamite  of  a  letter.  He  's  a  broken  man, 
Locke.  He  needs  you,  and  the  business  needs  you. 
Sometimes  he  is  afraid  you  haven't  made  good;  for 
you  promised  that  you  would  come  back  in  a  year,  hav- 
ing proved  some  things  which  you  undertook  to  prove, 
and  it  is  over  two  years,  you  know;  and  sometimes 
he  thinks  you  are  dead.  Young  men  oftentimes  do 
not  realize  just  how  much  they  mean  to  their  fathers. 
He  has  not  been  the  same  since  you  left.  I  dared  not 
tell  him  about  this  complication.  He  is  not  very  well 
these  days.  You  must  forget  all  about  that  misunder- 
standing, Locke.  I  thought  myself,  at  one  time,  that 
you  were  going  to  the  devil  head  first.  I  was  afraid 

[402] 


"I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

you  were  the  proverbial  rich  man's  son.  Your  father's 
heart  was  just  about  broken  when  you  came  home  from 
your  German  University  and  your  travels,  with  a  list  of 
extravagances  which  so  incensed  him  that  he  quarrelled 
with  you  very  bitterly.  Remember,  he  had  been  plan- 
ning a  long  time  on  having  you  in  the  business.  It  ?s 
my  private  opinion  that,  unless  you  go  back,  the  Craw- 
ford Wholesale  House  will  either  go  out  of  business 
altogether  or  pass  into  other  hands.  As  I  said  before, 
your  father  is  not  the  same.  He  does  n't  seem  to  care  any 
more.  Of  course,  you  know  better  than  I  do  whether 
or  not  you  can  handle  the  management.  I  have  n't 
heard  the  particulars  of  these  two  years  yet.  But,  can- 
didly, I  think  you  have  made  good.  There  is  a  look 
about  your  eyes  that  I  like.  More  of  that  later.  Now 
about  this  girl  — " 

"  Uncle,  please  excuse  me.  I  am  in  —  somewhat  of 
a  hurry." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Secretary,  bluntly,  "  more  of  her 
later,  too.  If  she  is  a  girl  you  can't  take  home,  why, 
that  ends  it,  I  suppose.  I  hoped  you  were  free.  I  wish 
you  would  be  sensible  for  once  and  marry  some  good, 
steady  girl  in  your  own  station.  It  would  help  you  to 
settle  down." 

"  I  think,"  said  Locke,  very  gravely,  "  that  you  need 
not  be  afraid.  I  think  the  experiences  of  these  two 
years  have  settled  me  firmly  —  so  firmly  that  I  some- 
times think  there  is  little  spring  left  in  me.  I  do  not 
need  a  wife  for  that  purpose  —  or  care  for  one.  If 
Miss  Mendenhall  will  go  East  with  me,  I  shall  be  very 

[403] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

glad  indeed  to  go  home  to  my  father.  If  she  prefers 
to  remain  in  the  West,  in  the  West  we  shall  live  and 
die.  Not  my  will,  nor  yours,  nor  my  father's,  where 
our  home  shall  be,  but  my  wife's.  Good-bye  for  a  little 
while."  He  turned  abruptly  and  walked  rapidly  down 
the  street. 

The  Secretary  looked  after  him  a  moment,  a  smiling- 
tenderness  in  his  eyes,  before  the  mask  of  the  world  and 
the  multitudinous  cares  of  a  cabinet  officer  settled  again 
over  his  face. 

"  Just  like  Isabel,"  he  thought.  "  Off  like  a  pot  leg 
because  I  wounded  his  feelings  about  that  wretched  girl. 
She  was  the  most  loyal  woman  I  ever  knew,  and  —  her 
boy  is  like  her.  Confound  it  all,  I  hope,  for  all  our 
sakes,  that  she  is  a  girl  he  can  take  back  to  New  York 
and  Washington.  But  I  am  afraid.  According  to 
Inspector  Warlick,  this  Agent  is  a  bombastic,  dishon- 
est, grasping,  bluffing  sort  of  a  fellow.  It  would  be 
dreadful  if  his  daughter  should  prove  to  be  a  feminine 
replica  —  an  ignorant,  flaunting,  prairie  —  I  was  going 
to  say  weed,  but  maybe  I  'd  better  say  -flower  and  post- 
pone judgment  until  after  I  have  seen  her." 

Katharine  had  gone  to  the  home  of  some  friends  when 
her  father  had  been  unexpectedly  and  urgently  sum- 
moned to  Big  Bend.  They  were  an  elderly  couple  and 
were  not  attending  the  trial  at  all.  Her  mother  was 
not  in  the  city.  She  had  not  yet  recovered  her  strength 
lost  by  the  shock  of  her  daughter's  mysterious  disap- 
pearance. 

"  She  's  in  the  parlor,  waiting  to  hear  when  the  jury  's 
[404] 


'I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

gone  out,  poor  dear,"  whispered  the  woman  of  the 
house,  as  she  opened  the  door  in  response  to  Locke's 
quick  knock.  "  She  's  just  grieving  herself  to  death 
over  the  trial  that 's  going  on  over  to  the  court  house. 
It 's  her  lover,  you  know,  that 's  on  trial  for  his  life. 
Shall  I  announce  you?  " 

"  No,  let  me  go  in  alone,"  said  Locke,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  am  a  friend.  She  will  be  glad  to  see  me." 

He  opened  the  door  softly  and  stepped  inside  the 
room.  She  was  sitting  by  a  small  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  primly  arranged  "  best  room."  Her  arms  were 
thrown  upon  the  table  and  her  fair  head  was  buried  in 
them.  Her  whole  attitude  was  one  of  complete  aban- 
donment to  despair.  On  a  chair  by  her  side  lay  her 
hat  and  gloves.  She  was  plainly  awaiting  the  sum- 
mons to  the  court  room.  Seeing  her  thus  brought  a 
lump  to  Locke's  own  throat,  though  his  step,  as  he 
crossed  the  space  between  them,  was  light  with  the  sheer 
joy  of  the  disclosure  which  was  his  to  make  to  her.  He 
laid  his  hand  very  gently  on  the  coils  of  her  braided 
hair.  She  looked  up  quickly,  careless  of  her  tear- 
streaked  face  and  swollen  eyes.  She  thought  the  time 
had  come.  When  she  saw  who  it  was  that  had  touched 
her,  she  still  did  not  realize  the  significance  of  his  pres- 
ence. The  wild  thought  flashed  through  her  mind  that 
he  had  come  himself  to  tell  her  that  it  was  the  end. 
How,  she  did  not  question.  She  rose  quietly,  her  face 
like  death,  and  slipped  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  They  cannot  have  you,"  she  whispered,  in  a  strange 
voice.  "  I  will  keep  them  away." 

[405] 


THE         SPIRIT         TRAIL 

"  Katharine  —  darling  —  sweetheart !  "  he  cried, 
holding  her  close,  alarmed  at  the  strangeness  of  her 
manner.  "  I  am  not  a  prisoner  any  more.  I  am  free  1 
I  have  come  to  tell  you.  I  can  go  where  I  like  —  do 
what  I  like.  Peter  Dorsey  was  fatally  shot  in  a  gam- 
bling den  to-day,  and  he  sent  for  the  prosecuting  attor- 
ney. He  made  a  statement  to  the  lawyer  which  caused 
the  Government  to  refuse  to  carry  the  prosecution  any 
farther.  I  do  not  know  just  what  my  plain-word 
friend,  Peter,  said ;  but  he  must  have  made  it  very  plain 
that  I  was  not  guilty,  for  I  am  free.  Oh,  my  darling, 
my  darling !  "  he  cried,  passionately.  "  Free !  I  am 
free  to  marry  you !  " 

She  was  still  weeping  softly,  her  face  pressed  close 
against  his  breast ;  but  they  were  happy  tears,  oh,  very 
happy  tears  indeed,  and,  when  at  last  she  lifted  her  face, 
her  eyes  were  like  stars.  He  promptly  kissed  them, 
and  the  tremulous  lips  as  well. 

"Will  you  marry  me  to-day?"  he  asked,  a  gleam 
coming  into  his  eyes. 

She  shook  her  head,  smilingly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  My  father  and  mother  have  suffered  much  through 
me.  I  am  all  they  have.  I  must  be  married  at  home. 
Besides,  it  cannot  be  until  poor  daddy  is  out  of  trouble." 

Her  face  had  sobered. 

"  What  about  him,  sweetheart?  What  is  his  trouble? 
I  wondered  why  he  left." 

"  He  knew  trouble  was  brewing  for  him.  That  is. 
why  he  went  home.  The  United  States  Marshal  told  me 

[406] 


'I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

to-day  that  he  has  a  warrant  for  my  father's  arrest. 
Mr.  Warlick  swore  it  out,  accusing  him  of  issuing  false 
vouchers,  or  something  like  that.  Locke,  that  man  has 
meant  mischief  for  you  and  for  my  father  from  the 
first  day  he  landed  in  the  Indian  country.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  he  has.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about 
my  father.  The  Marshal  said  he  'd  have  to  arrest  him 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  to  Big  Bend." 

"  I  should  n't  worry  very  much  about  it,  dear  girl," 
said  Locke,  decidedly.  "  We  '11  get  even  with  those 
shining  boots  yet.  My  uncle  is  here.  By  the  way, 
Katharine,  my  uncle  is  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior, 
but  please  don't  jump  on  him  on  account  of  the  egre- 
gious blunders  which  were  made  in  regard  to  those 
Agency  Indians  who  could  not  get  back.  He  's  really 
an  awfully  fine  chap  in  most  respects.  You  know  he 
was  n't  on  the  ground  and  did  n't  understand.  I  am 
apologizing  for  him  because  you  are  such  a  confirmed 
little  Indian  since  you  were  adopted  into  Black  Toma- 
hawk's family,  that  I  am  afraid  your  judgments  might 
be  so  far-reaching  as  to  include  the  nephew  as  well  as 
the  uncle.  You  won't  hold  it  against  me,  will  you,  my 
girl?  "  he  coaxed,  his  lips  brushing  her  hair. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  severity. 
"  If  you  will  sit  down  and  behave  yourself,  we  '11  see 
about  it.  No,  over  there!  This  chair  is  mine.  Now, 
no  —  stay  right  where  you  are  —  we  were  speaking 
ixbout  Mr.  Warlick." 

"  Yes,"  said  Locke,  a  sternness  creeping  into  his 
voice.  "  I  shall  ask  just  one  favor  of  the  Secretary 

[407] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

of  the  Interior.  I  shall  take  advantage  of  my  kinship 
to  the  man  in  power  but  for  this  one  thing.  I  shall  ask 
for  the  immediate  discharge  of  Special  Inspector  War- 
lick." 

"  Where  is  your  uncle  now  ?  I  always  knew  you  had 
friends  at  court,  Locke,  only  you  were  too  proud  to  call 
upon  them." 

"  He  is  at  the  hotel,  waiting  to  be  summoned  to  meet 
the  woman  his  scapegrace  nephew  is  going  to  marry  as 
soon  as  ever  we  can  get  to  Big  Bend.  He  says  —  my 
father  wants  me  to  go  home,  Katharine.  Would  you 
like  to  go  East  again?  " 

"  Anywhere,  Locke,"  she  said,  simply.  "  I  will  go 
wherever  you  want  to  go,"  and  the  man,  remembering 
how  she  had  said  once  that  she  would  be  lost  with  him. 
somewhere  on  the  Great  Sioux  Reservation,  bowed  his 
head  for  a  moment,  honoring  her  and  loving  her. 

Presently  Hugh  Hunt  came.  The  two  men  clasped 
hands  silently. 

"  I  thought  I  should  find  you  here,"  said  Hugh,  at 
last.  "  I  could  not  come  before.  I  went  to  see  Peter 
Dorsey  before  he  died.  I  have  just  come  from  there. 
No,  he  did  not  send  for  me.  I  just  went.  He  con- 
fessed to  the  murder  of  Brian  Levering.  He  said  rob- 
bery was  his  original  motive,  but,  when  he  found  his 
old  enemy  at  the  road-house,  the  passion  for  revenge 
took  precedence  of  everything  else  and  he  determined  to 
throw  the  weight  of  circumstantial  evidence  around  you, 
Locke,  so  as  to  insure  your  conviction  for  the  crime 
of  which  he  himself  was  guilty.  He  went  back  to  the 

[408] 


I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME 


9   9 


Crossing  after  you  had  gone,  and  bought  poor  old 
Bob's  extraordinary  for  get  fulness.  I  think  fear,  how- 
ever, even  more  than  cupidity,  influenced  the  man's  mem- 
ory. Peter  did  not  die  altogether  at  peace  with  the 
world.  I  am  afraid  that  he  hated  you  as  much  as  ever, 
Locke ;  but,  as  he  said,  '  When  one  comes  to  die,  what 's 
the  use?  *  I  met  the  Marshal  on  the  way  here.  He 
gave  me  a  message  for  Miss  Mendenhall.  A  steamer 
leaves  in  an  hour  or  two  for  the  up-river.  It  will  very 
likely  be  the  last  one  to  climb  the  river  this  Fall.  He 
thought  you  might  like  to  take  it." 

"Indeed,  and  I  do,"  cried  Katharine.  "How  I 
thank  you,  Mr.  Hunt !  Are  you  never  weary  of  doing 
things  for  other  people?  You  are  going  home,  too, 
are  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  I  must  be  there  to  present  Running  Bird  and 
White  Flower  to  the  White  Robe  next  week  for  Con- 
firmation." 

"  White  Flower,  too  ?  "  cried  Katharine,  in  happy 
surprise. 

"  White  Flower,  too,"  said  Hugh,  quietly. 

"  And  of  course  I  am  going,"  said  Locke,  "  though 
I  little  thought  it  a  while  ago.  I  must  call  on  my  law- 
yers first ;  then,  I  will  get  my  uncle  and  come  for  you, 
Katharine." 

When  the  Secretary  met  Katharine  Mendenhall,  his 
face,  being  well-trained  in  the  world's  conventions,  ex- 
pressed only  pleasure  —  nothing  whatever  of  surprise. 

"  Thank  you  for  loving  Locke,"  he  said,  simply.  He 
knew  now  why  Locke  had  not  been  afraid. 

[409] 


THE         SPIRIT        TRAIL 

Before  going  on  board,  he  sent  for  Special  Inspector 
Warlick.  After  the  interview,  that  gentleman  took  the 
next  train  for  the  East.  Thus  was  Locke's  one  request 
granted.  The  persecution  to  which  his  nephew  had 
been  subjected  at  the  hands  of  the  officious  Inspector 
served  to  prepossess  the  Secretary  in  Major  Menden- 
hall's  favor.  Before  declaring  the  interview  at  an  end, 
he  told  Mr.  Warlick  that  he  would  himself  look  over 
the  evidence,  and,  if  there  was  cause  for  prosecution, 
he  would  see  that  it  was  attended  to;  if  not,  the  matter 
would,  of  course,  be  dropped. 

"  Privately,"  he  said  to  Locke,  "  I  am  of  your  opin- 
ion that  Mr.  Warlick  was  over-zealous  and  wanted  to 
earn  his  salary  by  getting  somebody  discharged.  His 
antagonism  to  you  was  probably  due  to  his  fear  of  your 
interfering  with  his  plans  to  make  a  reputation  for 
himself  by  running  to  earth  scandals  in  the  Indian  Serv- 
ice. You  very  likely  impressed  him  as  being  an  un- 
usually intelligent  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  he  was  afraid 
you  'd  cheat  him  out  of  some  of  the  honors  of  the  de- 
nouement. There  is  enough  dishonesty  and  graft  in 
the  Indian  Service,  Heaven  knows,  but  sometimes  the 
source  of  it  is  not  rightly  located.  I  will  investigate 
this  Agent  business  thoroughly,  and  I  hope,  for  your 
sake,  that  the  charges  against  him  will  be  found  to  be 
altogether  without  foundation." 

So  it  proved.  It  was  shown  beyond  the  shadow  of 
a  doubt  that  there  had  been  no  misappropriation  of  funds 
on  the  part  of  the  Agent,  no  hush  money  received,  no 
falsifying  of  accounts.  Neither  he  nor  the  post-trader 

[410] 


"I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

was  found  to  be  in  fault  for  the  clever  trickery  at 
certain  cattle-receiving  times.  Men  lower  down  were 
proved  to  be  responsible  for  it  —  hired  herders  who 
coveted  flocks  of  their  own,  and,  whenever  occasion  pre- 
sented, manipulated  certain  transactions  so  as  to  enrich 
themselves  at  the  expense  of  the  Government.  When 
the  Agent's  absolute  integrity  had  been  established  be- 
yond question,  the  Secretary  slipped  back  to  Washing- 
ton. 

A  few  weeks  later,  a  little  group  of  friends  stood 
together  in  the  crude  waiting-room  of  the  station  at 
Yankton.  It  was  November  and  the  chill  of  coming 
Winter  was  in  the  air,  though  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly  over  the  sombre  tones  of  the  foliage-stripped 
landscape.  Only  a  few  people  were  standing  around  to 
watch  the  train  slip  away  to  that  East  which  was  coming 
to  seem  farther  and  farther  away  as  the  pioneers  found 
their  interests  ever  more  and  more  taking  root  in  the 
WTest  country.  Especially  on  days  like  this  did  the 
East  seem  very  far  away,  when  the  projecting  shadow 
of  Winter  in  the  dreamy  air  brought  visions  of  snow- 
drifts, ice-bound  rivers,  and  cutting  winds  to  hedge  one 
in.  To  many,  even  yet,  that  unmistakable  tang  which 
departing  Autumn  leaves  behind  brought  dreams  of  dis- 
tant homes,  and  tears  of  lonesomeness  and  longing. 

Major  and  Mrs.  Mendenhall  had  said  good-bye  at 
the  landing  at  Big  Bend  to  the  beautiful  and  radiant 
bride  of  but  a  few  hours,  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Locke 
Raynor  Crawford,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Running  Bird  — 
John  since  baptism  —  and  Hugh  Hunt  had  trooped 

[411] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL, 

merrily  up  the  gang-plank  of  the  last  steamer  to  brave 
the  perils  of  becoming  ice-locked  in  the  upper  country, 
and  which  was  now  hastening  down  to  its  Winter  dock. 
It  would  be  very  lonely  at  the  Agency  now,  but  — "  Oh, 
my  dear,  my  dear,"  sobbed  the  little  worn- faced  lady 
with  eyes  of  tear-dimmed,  faded  blue,  as  she  watched  the 
boat  turn  the  bend  and  disappear  — "  not  like  the 
loneliness  of  those  dreadful  months  when  we  did  not 
know  whether  she  was  living  or  —  dead.  I  thank  God 
that  she  is  going  home  at  last.  She  is  too  fair  for  the 
frontier !  " 

"  Too  fair  for  the  frontier !  "  That  was  what  Hugh 
Hunt's  friends  thought  about  him.  "  He  is  too  fair 
and  fine  for  the  frontier,"  they  said.  They  had  grown 
weary  with  its  vain  repetition  during  the  last  few  weeks. 
Hugh's  only  answer  had  been  a  smile.  But  they  re- 
newed it  this  day,  when  the  harsh  bell  of  the  engine, 
clanging  out  the  news  of  the  train's  having  glided  up 
to  the  platform,  brought  it  home  to  them  poignantly 
that  the  time  of  parting  had  come. 

"  So  many  need  ministering  to  there,"  said  Katha- 
rine, earnestly.  "  Just  because  they  have  money  and 
culture,  family  and  position,  must  that  shut  them  out 
from  the  great  good  of  friendship  with  a  man  like  you  ? 
You  will  be  appreciated  there.  Here  —  the  Reservation 
is  so  wide  —  after  all,  one  man  can  do  so  little.  It  all 
seems  so  hopeless.  You  will  only  wear  yourself  out. 
You  will  die,  and  the  world,  the  real  world,  will  be  none 
the  wiser.  You  are  needed  in  the  world,  Mr.  Hunt !  " 

"  And,  you  know,  there  are  few  Running  Birds  and 
[412] 


I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME 


9  9 


White  Flowers  among  the  Indians,"  said  Locke,  his 
racial  prejudice  strong  in  the  hour  of  his  glad  return 
to  the  life  of  his  world  —  the  life  of  the  cities,  where 
big,  worldly  things  are  done  and  talked  about.  In 
after  years,  he  thought  tenderly  and  talked  kindly  of 
those  dusky  and  faithful  friends  with  whom  he  had 
lived  one  long,  stormy  Winter,  safely  lost  on  the  Great 
Reservation ;  but  now  he  was  going  home  —  with  Kath- 
arine; the  East  called  him  strongly,  and  he  had  lit- 
tle thought  for  them  except  the  selfish  one  that  they 
were  losing  him  the  companionship  of  one  of  the  finest 
men  he  knew.  "  If  you  succeed  in  reclaiming  others, 
what  have  you?  Are  there  any  more  worth  saving? 
Black  Tomahawk  is  dead.  Poor  old  chap  —  he  held 
to  his  boast  that  he  would  never  come  back,  didn't  he? 
What  a  haunted  place  the  valley  of  the  Little  Big 
Horn  will  always  be !  Smoke  Woman,  you  have  already 
won,  I  daresay,  as  she  is  now  an  inmate  of  Running 
Bird's  lodge;  but  I  warrant  you  that  fierce  old  grand- 
mother will  die  in  the  faith  of  her  fathers.  Yellow 
Owl  is  hopeless.  I  don't  know  what  you  'd  want  with 
him  anyway  —  unless  it  would  be  to  shoot  him  —  but 
you  will  never  get  the  Dakota  doctor.  Besides,  he  has 
fled  to  Canada.  There  are  not  many  brains  left.  Give 
it  up,  Hugh !  Come  with  us !  There  will  never  be  an- 
other war.  They  're  tamed.  Any  one  can  teach  them 
the  A  B  C  of  the  Bible.  What  holds  you,  man?  They 
are  only  children.  We  will  send  kindergarten  teachers 
out  to  them.  It  is  criminal  for  you  to  waste  your 
talents  out  here.  It 's  like  burying  them  in  the  ground. 

[413] 


THE        SPIRIT        TRAIL 

That 's  not  sacrilegious,  Hugh,  it 's  the  honest  truth. 
Come  with  us !  What  keeps  you  ?  " 

Hugh  Hunt  stood  at  the  window,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  brown  hills  rising  to  meet  the  dreaming  November 
sky. 

"  There  is  something,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  It  will  be 
very  hard  —  I  may  not  be  able  to  make  them  see.  I  had 
hoped  that  our  blundering  would  cease  after  —  the 
Great  Tragedy-  It  would  bring  the  destined  end  so 
much  nearer  —  make  the  way  of  it  so  much  easier  — 
save  so  much  of  doubt  and  heartache  and  bloodshed. 
You  know  that  Running  Bird  was  not  asked  to  sign 
the  new  Treaty  for  the  relinquishment  of  the  Black 
Hills  and  the  buffalo  country.  They  were  afraid  to 
ask  him.  Only  a  handful  signed  it,  and  yet  the  Lara- 
mie  Treaty  plainly  stipulates  that  no  part  of  the  Indian 
lands  can  be  relinquished  without  the  signatures  of 
three-fourths  of  the  adult  males.  Perhaps  it  is  best 
for  the  white  people  to  have  all  the  wealth  of  the  world. 
They  know  how  to  use  it  to  better  advantage  —  but  I 
think  the  Dakotas  could  be  easily  taught.  I  think  we 
might  very  well  conserve  their  wealth  for  them  until 
they  do  know  how  to  use  it.  I  think  nothing  can  pros- 
per permanently  which  is  gained  by  misrepresentation, 
double-dealing,  broken  pledges.  I  should  like  to  go 
East.  It  is  a  sweet  and  happy  land.  I  was  born  there. 
It  is  home.  But  I  cannot  go  yet.  I  must  stay  to  keep 
telling  Running  Bird  and  all  those  others  that,  even 
though  they  did  not  sign  the  new  Treaty,  the  land  is 
.theirs  no  longer.  They  cannot  understand  why  it  is  not. 

[414] 


'I    CAN    NEVER    GO    HOME' 

It  will  take  a  long  time  for  some  of  those  proud  men  who 
were  not  asked  to  sign  to  be  convinced.  Many  more 
than  the  one-fourth  of  all  were  not  asked  to  sign.  We 
were  afraid  to  ask  them.  I  have  to  say  we,  because  I 
am  a  wrhite  man.  Many  will  not  give  up  without  more 
bloodshed  in  the  time  to  come  —  nothing  can  make  them 
except  a  finer  Christianity  than  we  have  ourselves 
shown,  a  truer  conception  of  the  Man  Who  does  not 
fight  back.  I  think  —  I  can  never  go  home  again." 

He  turned  when  he  had  said  that  and  smiled,  a  pa- 
tient, wistful  smile  that  brought  the  tears  to  Katharine's 
eyes. 

"  All  aboard !  "  cried  the  conductor,  pushing  open  the 
door. 

Locke  and  Katharine  shook  hands  cordially  with  their 
Indian  friends  —  Katharine  kissing  her  adopted  sister 
as  naturally  as  if  they  were  of  one  color  —  and  stepped 
out  on  the  platform.  Hugh  Hunt  followed  them. 
When  the  young  husband  and  wife  had  climbed  to  the 
rear  platform  of  the  last  car,  the  three  stood  for  a 
moment  silent,  with  clasped  hands.  The  train  began  to 
move  —  their  hands  were  strained  apart  by  its  gathering 
speed. 

Looking  back,  Locke  and  Katharine  watched  the 
little  station  sink  into  the  distance.  The  platform  was 
deserted  now  save  for  the  presence  of  one  man  who  stood 
motionless,  his  eyes  upon  the  rapidly  receding  train. 
The  sunlight  of  the  late  November  afternoon  seemed  to 
accentuate  the  loneliness  of  the  still  figure. 

"  He  —  he  —  looks  so  lonely,"  whispered  Katharine, 
[415] 


THE         S  P  IRIT        TRAIL 

the  tears  springing  to  her  eyes  again.  "  We  seem  to 
be  deserting  him.  It  does  n't  seem  right  some  way." 

"  It  does  make  a  fellow  feel  like  a  deserter,"  said 
Locke,  swallowing  hard,  "  but  he 's  such  a  visionary. 
No  one  could  do  much  for  him,  I  fancy ;  few  of  us 
are  good  enough  to  live  like  him,  and  we  could  never 
keep  up." 

Just  then,  two  figures  came  from  the  door  of  the 
waiting-room,  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  one  stood  on 
his  right  side  and  one  on  his  left.  They  were  Running 
Bird  and  White  Flower.  As  the  train  slipped  around 
the  bend,  Hugh  Hunt  stood  erect  and  lifted  his  hat  high 
in  the  air,  while  the  Indians  waved  their  hands. 

"  I  was  wrong1  when  I  said  he  was  alone,"  said  Kath- 
arine, with  a  little  sob,  as  she  and  Locke  stepped  back 
into  the  car.  » 


THE    END 


[416] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


1943 


LD  21-100m-7,'39(402> 


M18923 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


